#the certainty with which I know this terrifies me

[offonaherosjourney]

If I'd been in Orpheus's place I simply wouldn't have turned. I would have eventually tripped on a rock or with my feet, taken a tumble and ended up with my ass on the ground and somehow facing a beffuddled Eurydice, though

[middle-name-queer]

.

[lunarw0rks]

Simon would have a rough time trusting another person enough to have sex.

can you write something about his first time with the reader where he asks about consent for almost every move he makes?

I'd love a gender neutral reader but afab is good too❤️❤️

♡ PART TWO ♡ PART THREE ♡

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ first-time with simon ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ // warning(s): nsfw, gn!reader

it took long for him to admit his feelings for you. took even longer to do anything resembling intimacy. it's the deepest connection for him, though he doesn't look the type.

it's everything to him, and nothing simultaneously. he could have a healthy relationship that lacked sexual intimacy entirely, and wouldn't lose a wink of sleep.

but here he was — ready to test the waters.

it had to be an act of one hundred percent certainty with Simon. no regrets, no hard feelings, no uncomfortable moments. pure pleasure with someone he trusted.

none of it was planned, which both terrified and intrigued him.

you had arrived home like normal, shared a meal like normal. and then... somehow ended up all over each other — not normal for you two. but it wasn't rushed, it wasn't hot and heavy, it was natural. you were leaning into him heavier than before, kissing him even deeper.

it was as if your bodies had all the conversation up until this point — a silent decision that tonight was the night. "you sure about this, love?" Simon murmured, a thumb caressing your cheek as he looked for any inkling of doubt in your eyes. however, there wasn't any, not even a smidge.

whether you supplied a nod or a verbal cue, he continued to ask for them. he needed them, otherwise it didn't feel right. each layer of clothing, he asked. every new inch of flesh, he asked. Simon needed to know you were all there; not blinded by lust, not purely following his lead for the sake of a hasty release.

"can I take these off?" his fingers hovered over your undergarments, waiting until you nodded for him to roll them down your thighs. even when exposed in front of him, his mind was running a mile a minute. Simon relied on his hands first, since he kept his mouth busy looking for reassurance. "does that feel alright? you want 'em faster?" his need for consent oozed enough sex-appeal to begin with — but now you were greeted with a whole new him. still considerate, still frazzled, but even more attractive than you'd ever seen him.

you were sure his eyes never left you, because they didn't. whether he was making eye contact or watching his hands prepare you, they were always cemented.

sometimes the other hand would stay at his side until you were deeper in pleasure. then it would move to your chest, slithering up until he could caress your heated cheeks. his touch, even the innocent one, only heightened his ability to make you feel good.

he didn't know when to stop. what if you weren't really ready? what if he hurt you somehow? you physically had to snap him out of it. either by begging, or giving him a look of desperation — and it spoke volumes, indeed. you needed him, yearned for the part of Simon still unknown.

"say the words and i'll stop, love." once again, his gaze searched for discomfort, but found none. after a few moments of shuffling, he found a position that required little exertion — spooning you. his arms could remain tight around your waist, where he could hit all the right angles, and both parties could remain relaxed on the mattress.

and so it began; the slowest ease, the utmost restraint when he finally rid himself of his clothes. though you hadn't touched an inch of him, his arousal was evident. inch by inch, he guided himself into you, "we'll take it slow— just like this." he stuck to his words, halting if you ever needed a moment. he was still as a statue until you gave him the go-ahead to go all in. "does that feel good? you want more, hm? fuck, you feel good around me."

Simon finally started to enjoy it, too, though he remained calculated and observant. your own sounds and praises are what mattered most, always would to him. he could physically feel his trust building with you, as did he mentally.

whether common or uncommon, there were more nights like this to come in the future.

the night wasn't perfect by any means, but his forbearance was not something easily forgotten.

[darkfire359]

Izzy and the Myth of the Perfect Victim

One thing that's often bugged me about people saying "Izzy got off on it" about Ed cutting off his pinky toe is how then they proceed to assume "and that makes it okay" (or "Izzy is undeserving of sympathy"), as if that somehow follows at all.

I've spoken before about how I actually DO read Izzy as feeling positively about the interaction—and how I think this makes the scene even more tragic, because it means Izzy was so desperately miserable before that he thought something like this had to be preferable to the status quo. Personally I think that having a toe cut off would be too painful to be arousing, even for a pretty extreme masochist. But even if it was, at the end of the day, Izzy's still going to be missing that toe for the rest of his life.

Plus, even aside from from the permanent effects... people can still be physically aroused by things they find deeply traumatic. It's pretty victim-blamey to imply otherwise. And regardless of how much awe and hope Izzy might or might not have felt, I think it's pretty obvious that he definitely felt fear. Izzy now knows, with absolute certainty, that he's not safe in his own bed anymore, not at all. Even if he doesn't act traumatized, and even if he thinks the sacrifice was worth it, it'd still be a hell of a price to pay.

...Which brings me to the clip from earlier today. One of the things that struck me about it was how Izzy isn't being nice. He's being mean and giving the crew objectively unreasonable orders that they hate. And the crew STILL reacts by seeing underneath that, seeing how much he is hurting and trying to offer support.

It was really refreshing to see, because Izzy cannot afford to stop and cry and ask for help. He doesn't think it's safe to be vulnerable around other people, and he's probably right—it's obvious how much Izzy doesn't believe in the orders he's shouting, but he still goes at it with a kind of terrifying desperation. Maybe Izzy not getting the crew to obey orders is what causes Ed to take off more toes. Or maybe he simply thinks that if he doesn't do his job, if he's not useful, that he'll simply be discarded. (Ed might care about Izzy a great deal, but for all Izzy knows, the only reason Ed saved his life at the end of e9 was because he needed Izzy to fetch him tea.)

Izzy reacts to a lot of the stress in his life in messy ways, and while that's not great, it also doesn't make his suffering any less real. No one is obligated to reach out to help the angry, shouty first mate who insists that he's fine... but it's really wonderful when they do. People are still worthy of compassion even when they can't be the perfect victim.

[flowerandblood]

The Man in the Black Gloves

[ Amor • Aemond x Psyche • female ]

[ warnings: public sex, fingering, smut, angst, threats, sexual tension, domination, violence, mention of the murder ]

[ description: After she is attacked in a fair by a strange man and narrowly avoids death, her father the king decides that from now on she will be watched over by one of his ‘ghosts’, a assassin acting on his orders, wearing a black mask. The man follows her like a shadow, accompanied by their past, which keeps her awake at night. Gothic horror love story, angst, sexual tension, very dark Aemond. ]

This story is several requests combined into one: sworn protector x female; Amor x Psyche; Phantom of the Opera! Aemond x female. I took the liberty of creating a completely new story from this, having only elements of each of these requests.

Series & Characters Moodboard Lady Walford Moodboard Gothic & Horror Sensual Moodboard

Part 1 - The Man with the Black Mask | Part 2 - The Man with the Empty Heart | Part 3 - The Man with the Lost Soul | Part 4 - The Man with the Cold Mouth | Part 5 - The Man with the Deep Scar | Part 6 - The Man with the One Eye | Part 7 - The Man with the Golden Gift | Part 8 - The Man in the Black Crown | Part 9 - The Man with the Bloody Sword | Part 11 - The Man in the Death Cloak | Part 12 - The Man with the Pearly Hair | Part 13 - The Man with the Fiery Gaze

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Although the thought of marriage and motherhood had terrified her before her father's death, now, being married at last and hoping to become the mother of her husband-king's children, she understood that it was all just a matter of the person she was to spend her life with.

Her husband, though terrifying and cruel, understood his duty as a husband and as a lover and fulfilled them to the best of his ability. She did not expect sweet words or confessions from him, knowing that they were not in his nature, however, he showed his affection to her in a different way.

Through his actions.

When that insolent woman dared to suggest that she become her husband's mistress in the future, that she would bear his child, she felt disbelief and a sense of betrayal spill over her insides.

She clenched her lips, trying with all her might to hold back the tears of humiliation that appeared under her eyelids.

How dare she?

"Hold her." She heard her husband's cold voice and saw him stand from his throne with a sudden, impatient movement.

"− give me your sword −" He said to Ser Criston in an unobjectionable voice − his guards grabbed the woman under her arms and forced her to kneel before them. She noticed with satisfaction that there was no longer a trace of the certainty of a moment ago on her face.

Her husband was unpredictable, burning like a fire that could not be tamed.

Anyone who tried was doomed to burn.

She listened to her desperate explanations with her lips clenched, pale, begging in her mind that her husband would not change his mind, that he would not let her go after what she had said, allowing her to leave a scar in her heart forever.

The thought that one day they would meet again without her knowledge and her prediction would come true.

A great uproar spread around them, people shouting at each other, until suddenly a blade swished swiftly in front of her − the woman who had just stood before them was deprived of her head, which rolled down the stairs to the stone floor with a thud.

"Her every breath would be an insult to my Queen. Let this be a lesson to anyone who tries to plot against her. Guards, lock Lord Ronwell in the dungeons until she decides what to do with him." He said lowly, with some kind of regret towards himself for allowing such a situation to happen.

He looked at her with a calmness in his eye, a conviction that he had done the right thing, that whatever this woman had predicted would never come true.

Once again, he made her feel an overwhelming sense of relief, like when she saw her mother and learned that she was alive.

She thought, looking at him with parted lips, feeling sweet throbbing between her thighs, that she would give him everything, would drown with him in her blood, would not let him carry the burden of this sin alone.

He did it for her.

Never before had she come as hard as she had that evening, feeling the tart taste of blood in her mouth as he slammed into her with quick, brutal thrusts of his hips, stretching her weeping cunt with his fat, swollen cock, aroused as much as she was.

She couldn't even remember when she reached her peak, feeling that she almost screamed with pleasure along with him.

She sighed quietly as she felt his hot seed finally spill inside her, feeling only fulfilment, only peace.

"− good gods − are you all right? −" He asked uncertainly, horrified surely as she was at how brutal and sacrilegious this closeness was.

She felt ashamed at the thought that she hadn't been this relaxed in a long time.

She heard him sigh out loud as she nodded her head, his large, rough hand stroking lightly her soft buttock.

"Let's take a bath." He suggested and she nodded again, completely without strength.

They undressed slowly when they were left alone with the steaming tub filled with pleasantly warm water. She dipped her feet into it first and then sat between his legs, resting her wet back against his chest, laying her head on his shoulder. She heard him hum quietly, feeling his fingers combing through her hair in a tender gesture.

They lay like this in silence, calming down at last, fingertips of his free hand trailing thoughtfully over her bare body making her feel goosebumps.

"Are you afraid of me?" He asked her suddenly, startling her completely − his voice quiet and uncertain, on the verge of a whisper.

She lifted her face higher, twisting with a quiet splash of water, wanting to look at him, raising her fingers to his cheek and running them over his skin.

"No." She replied softly, warmly, his hand combing through her hair with a light, musing gesture.

"I tried to kill you." He said lowly, as if merely stating a fact that he felt should concern her.

"Then why am I still alive?" She asked tracing her fingers along his chin, cupping her nose against his cheek. She heard him snort under his breath.

She didn't have to look at him to know that an amused grin was painted on his face.

She felt his hand trace a circle over her lower abdomen, massaging her warm skin under the water, knowing that all he was thinking now was the fact that she was filled with his spend.

Neither of them said anything more.

They conveyed most of the things to each other without words. She felt that he was able to express more with his hands than with his mouth, his fingers combing through her hair, stroking her naked body at night showing her what he felt, what he desired.

They both knew how empty and worthless words could be.

After what had happened to Alys Rivers, no woman dared to even attempt to come close to her husband anymore. She decided to show mercy to the lord who had brought her before them and was plotting against her, knowing that if her husband killed him, his whole family would turn against him.

She knew that the whole court had witnessed what would befall those who would try to come between them.

She found with amusement that they did not understand where their attachment and affection came from, thinking that it had a purely physical undertone that could always pass when someone more beautiful or more tempting appeared on the horizon.

Their marriage, however, was primarily based on how deeply they were bonded by their pasts, how they experienced things similarly, sunk in darkness, coming out at night to haunt the castle's inhabitants like ghosts.

She had the impression that there was a disturbing aura around them, that people feared them not only because of their power, but also because of that hint of madness they saw in their eyes.

After a time of war and unrest, her husband's lords advised him to take advantage of the fact that the new year was approaching, to use the date as a break from the past and to allow celebrations in the fortress as well as throughout the kingdom.

"Do you think it's appropriate? To hold a carnival and balls for chattels and drunkard lords?" He asked, sitting stretched out in his chair, obviously unconvinced by the idea, yet realising that his cool nature may have overlooked some of his subjects' needs, which did not mean that they were not important.

"The people have at last regained their King, peace has prevailed. Even though you won't do it, they want to move on and forget what happened eight years ago, begin again. Let them enjoy themselves, give them a day full of wine, bread and dances, let them decorate their town and enjoy themselves as they wish." She said softly, looking at him with a gentle gaze. He sighed heavily, massaging his forehead with his hand.

"Am I supposed to sit for hours behind a table and watch them make fools of themselves?" He asked impatiently, and she pressed her lips together, approaching him slowly with the quiet rustling of her gown.

"Arrange for it to be a masked ball. Let's blend in with the crowd. Don't we also have reason to celebrate, my husband?"

To her surprise, after much thought, he agreed to her proposal. His lords accepted his decision with relief, themselves apparently looking for an opportunity at long last to get out of the stress and sacrifice they had put in to help him regain his throne.

None of them told each other what they would wear or when they would appear in the throne room, recognising that it would spoil everything. She ordered that a matte, soft black gown be prepared for her, with a cut neckline with exposed shoulders and back, bold and unworthy of a queen or true lady.

She wore a black mask over her face, sheathed in a material identical to that of her gown, her dark hair loose. She did not put on any jewellery − she liked the simplicity and at the same time shamelessness of this attire.

She thought that this night she was not a Queen, she was not a lady but a shadow, a phantom, a mist, something intangible, something she had always wanted to be.

As she left her chamber she was immediately struck by the sounds of violin and flute music, loud conversations and laughter. She turned into the corridor and noticed hundreds of people discussing with each other, each of them disguised, masks over their faces.

She noted with satisfaction that no one bowed to her, that no one paid any attention to her, that she was like air.

She felt a sudden rush of adrenaline, a sense of empowerment and impunity at the same time.

She stepped into the main hall, which was the throne room, looking at the couples dancing in the centre of it − lovers for just one night pressed their bodies close to the walls, enjoying the time they were given as best they could, knowing that tomorrow they would have to return to their husbands and wives.

They all had goblets filled to the brim with wine − she could smell the roasts, soups and breads from the tables around her.

It seemed to her that she had joined some temple of promiscuity and splendour, her heart pounding like mad.

She walked unhurriedly among the crowds of people, gazing intently at their fanciful costumes, eavesdropping on their conversations, listening with amusement as the apparent anonymity gave the court's inhabitants the courage to speak their minds about her and her husband.

"I once passed by our King's chambers at night. There were such noises coming from it that I thought they were both dying in agony." Said a woman with light hair pinned up in a bun, her mask and gown blue, adorned with gold threads.

"She is a witch. As a traitor's daughter, she certainly has her ways of deceiving the King's mind." The other woman, younger, replied − she seemed to recognise in her the daughter of one of the lords who had strenuously tried for weeks to stumble upon her husband in the crown's library, wishing to seduce him.

"They are both mad." She hummed to them with amusement, and saw that they looked at her, trying in the semi-darkness to recognise who she might have been, but she did not let them stare at her and moved on, looking thoughtfully at the dancing pairs.

She was surprised to hear someone moaning behind her, and spotted a couple who were clearly just having a rapture with each other − both of them pressed up against the wall, hidden in the shadows, apparently hoping that no one would interrupt their obviously wonderful delight.

She smiled under her breath, turning her face away − she felt a throbbing between her thighs at the thought that her husband might take her in the same way this evening, in front of everyone.

She almost laughed at the thought that perhaps these prudish ladies would recognise them and their moans.

"My Lady." She shuddered when heard someone whisper behind her, masculine and low, pleasantly throaty. She did not turn towards him, looking ahead.

"You caught my attention right away. That beautiful back." The man muttered, running his fingers over her exposed skin − she felt a pleasant shiver, but did not bestow a single glance on him.

"I have to dance with you, my Lady, because I swear I'm going to lose my mind."

She lifted her chin higher and hummed, considering his words.

"We have enough madness in this stronghold so I am afraid I must prevent your downfall and agree, my Lord." She said, extending her hand to him − he took it respectfully and led her towards the spinning pairs.

She hadn't done it for months and never in this way and this man, whoever he was, was an excellent dancer.

He dared to shamelessly place his hand on her bare back and only then did she lift her warning gaze to him; his hair was dark and curly, reaching his shoulders, he was well built and tall.

She saw that he parted his lips when he saw a small part of her face, her eyes, lips and chin emerging from under her black mask, looking at her as if his breath had been taken away.

"Tell me you don't have a husband." He choked out between one turn and the next, their hands meeting in another movement.

"I have a husband, my Lord, and I am a faithful wife." She said softly − the man licked his lower lip, leaning over her, only to take a few steps away from her, their hands touching again.

"Is that so?" He murmured defiantly, and she smiled, amused, feeling herself throbbing at the thought that her king, her husband might have just watched her from afar, might have recognised her, might have been furious with jealousy.

That he might have wanted to kill this brazen man.

"Mmm. I would be careful if I were you, my Lord. My husband is dangerous. He is a breathing death." She whispered, feeling the rapid pounding of her heart at that thought, feeling with excitement that she was wet, her fleshy walls pulsing around nothing.

"I don't fear death. What I fear for is that I will never see you again." He said when the music ended, applause echoed around them, even though he should have done so, he didn't let go of her hand.

"You can be sure of that." She hummed with amusement, taking her hand and turning away from him, disappearing into the crowd.

She heard his desperate calls behind her and laughed, feeling like a mermaid who was leading an innocent young man to be devoured by a monster.

She was hot and walked over to the table to pour herself some wine, however the steel gilded jug was heavy and she had trouble lifting it. She shuddered and gasped when someone stopped right behind her, a large hand dressed in a black leather glove took it from her and filled her goblet halfway.

"Are you enjoying yourself, my Lady?" She heard a cold, deep, familiar voice behind her, a powerful shiver of desire passed through her − she involuntarily parted her lips feeling the unbearable pulsing of her walls and lifted her cup to her lips, taking a deep sip from it.

"Yes, my Lord." She replied innocently, feeling his hot breath on her neck, his dark, dangerous, sinister aura.

"Dance with me."

She felt her heart stop for a moment and swallowed loudly, turning over her shoulder.

A tear-stained mask on his face, a hood on his head.

He looked like one of her father's ghosts.

Vhagar.

He held out his hand to her and she placed hers on it, allowing him to guide her between the couples spinning to the rhythm of the music.

She felt stunned by his scent and his presence − if a moment ago she had been a cruel siren longing to devour, now she longed to be devoured, wanted to burn in the fire of his wrath, to die in the embrace of his arms if that was his wish.

As they made a turn their hands clasped tightly over their bodies; they were far too close to each other to consider their dance decent, however this night no one paid any attention to such things, his gaze from under the transparent black material cold and distant.

"Do you enjoy balancing on the edge of life and death, my Lady?" He asked low, his voice like ice, like a sharp blade − her pink lips swollen with desire parted slightly, droplets of sweat on her bare arms as they spun around each other, their hands touching.

"Yes." She whispered and heard him hum, as if he accepted her answer.

She felt overwhelmed, at the same time knowing who was behind the mask, yet being able to pretend that it was a complete stranger, a phantom who wanted to kill her, rip her entrails apart.

They didn't take their eyes off each other for the entire dance − there was something sensual in their movements, his gloved hand barely touching her bare back, she felt like she was about to die of lust.

She wanted him to do this to her, and he knew it, he could see it in her eyes.

When the music silenced they bowed to each other. She immediately headed towards the crowd, glancing at him meaningfully over her shoulder, watching to see if he would follow her. She stopped only at the wall, with nowhere else to go, her face illuminated only by the flame of a torch hanging nearby.

He walked towards her with a calm, lazy, firm step, like an executioner, like a judge, like a sentence to be imposed on her. She moaned as he turned her violently towards the wall, immediately pushing against her, she felt his hardness pressed against her buttocks.

"Whore." He hissed, she parted her lips and mewled, feeling her moist core throb around nothing, her cheek pressed against the wall, her fingers clenched helplessly on the cold stone.

She heard him pull off his gloves and throw them on the floor − one of his hands grabbed her neck and forced her to arch back and buck up, the other with an impatient, rough movement lifted the material of her gown at the front, slipping immediately between her thighs, they both groaned low with pleasure when he felt how wet she was.

"− what happened here? − hm? − fuck − all sticky −" He breathed out between her helpless, sweet moans, his fingertips spreading her moisture all over her womanhood, digging deeply into her skin around her pearl, teasing her with circular, sure strokes, involuntarily her hips began to rub against his hard cock hidden in his breeches behind her.

"− oh − oh gods, yes −" She mumbled dulled by how pleasurable it was − she heard him chuckle lowly behind her, his other hand clasped tighter around her neck. She squirmed as his finger tentatively slid inside her, only teasing her slit.

"− look at him − look at him when you fuck yourself with my fingers −" He growled and she obeyed his command, looking at the man who only a moment ago was ready to ask her to marry him − he stood in the distance looking at them in disbelief, his lips slightly parted.

She moaned, responding with her hips to his strokes when she realised that he must have imagined he was in the place of that black hooded figure standing behind her.

"− does your husband fuck you too rarely? − doesn't he stretch you well with his cock? − hm? −" He snarled, sliding his finger in and out deeper and deeper, pressing and rubbing again and again the wonderful spot hidden between her fleshy walls.

"− I − mghmm −" She mumbled out feeling that she was about to come, panting loudly along with him, his hips rubbing aggressively against her buttocks.

"− let's show him what duty a husband has to his wife −" He exhaled, sliding his finger out of her, his hand wet with her juices lifted her gown up.

She felt a chill wash over her exposed buttocks − there was music and loud conversations all around them, everyone could see what they were doing and although they weren't the only ones, the thought that it was happening right now and this way, made her legs tremble.

She heard him quickly undo the clasp of his coat, covering her with his body, not allowing anyone but him to see her womanhood, all swollen and wet with her moisture. She squirmed when she felt his freed, hard erection hit her bare skin, his fingers spreading her folds before him as the fat head of his cock pressed against her slit from below.

He opened her wide with one simple, sharp thrust, slamming into her like mad, his hand clamped around her neck forcing her to lean back more − she could feel his hot breath against her ear despite his mask.

"− look at him − he's fucking himself with his hand while looking at my wife − at my − fucking − wife −" He growled sinisterly, infuriated, rooting into her quickly and brutally, with each thrust of his hips forcing her sore, fleshy muscles to barely fit him in, his thick, swollen cock rubbing her so wonderfully that a cry broke from her lips − even if she wanted to she couldn't see anyone anymore, her gaze and mind clouded from pleasure.

"− you know he's already dead, don't you? − ah − would you want him to touch you before he died? − for him to root his cock deep inside you just for once? −" He hissed out between aggressive, deep thrusts, pounding into her with a loud slapping of flesh against flesh, both of them panting desperately, her body responding to his every move with rocking her hips.

"− n-no − your seed − I want it inside me −" She babbled with difficulty between her whimpers and his thrusts from which her whole body trembled − she heard his low groan of surprise and delight, his cock throbbing hard inside her, feeling her walls clench around him greedily.

"− beg − fucking beg −" He growled pounding it into her so hard that her pleasure was on the verge of pain − she cried out loudly sensing that a few more of his movements and she would come, feeling that wonderful tickle in her lower abdomen every time the tip of his cock rubbed against her upper wall again.

"− please − please, husband, have mercy − fill your faithful wife −" She mewled pleadingly, despairingly, pathetically, thinking only of the fact that she wanted him to come inside her, that she wanted to feel his spend trickling down her thighs when she looked again at this insolent man.

"− faithful? − you let him touch you − your bare skin that belongs to me − fuck − you don't deserve this grace −" He mocked licking his lips loudly, his thighs slapping against her buttocks with a loud click of her wetness with each ruthless thrust of his hips.

"− p-please − oh − oh gods, m close −" She mumbled out in delight and parted her lips in shock as a powerful wave of pleasure surged through her body again, again and again.

She clenched her eyes shut moaning shamelessly − she heard him gasp lowly, pounding into her faster, panting heavily, his cock twitching all over inside her.

"− fucking take it − take it-take it-take it −" He growled rooting it into her so hard that her throbbing walls forced him to let go and at last he filled her with himself with a sigh of relief, rocking his hips inside her for a while longer, several couples standing near them looked at them in disbelief.

She squirmed with despair when she felt him slide out of her − he tied his breeches quickly and lowered her gown with an impatient flick of his hand, covering her buttocks and thighs where his seed was trickling down. She saw out of the corner of her eye that he had moved forward, between the crowd.

She sank to the floor, panting heavily, her face hot from the exertion huddled against the cold wall, her heart pounding like mad.

She saw that those around her were looking at her and she wondered if they recognised her.

After a moment, she rose as if nothing had happened and moved towards her husband's chamber, stepping inside without a word, slipping her black gown off her shoulders, lying on his bed with only her black mask over her face, her thighs sticky from their mingled moisture.

She lay in the dim candlelight as he stepped into his chamber − her attention immediately drawn to the fact that he had no mask, his hood slipped from his head, his hands all covered in blood.

With a calm, nonchalant movement, he approached the table and undid the buckles of his cloak, dropping it to the ground, sinking his hands into a bowl of water, washing them thoroughly of the sticky red.

"Has my wife enjoyed her evening?"

"Yes, my King." She whispered softly, lying on her back, one of her legs bent at the knee swinging slightly from side to side, her hands placed on either side of her head.

"Mmm."

"I warned him that I have a husband and that I am an obedient, faithful wife. That this was the last day of his life. But he didn't listen." She whispered, looking at him with her lips slightly parted, knowing that they were both mad, that she shouldn't feel such heat at the thought that he was so sickly jealous of her.

And yet.

"Mmm, no need to fret about it anymore, my love. He will never bother you again."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

[raisedbythetv89]

OK.

ALRIGHT.

It’s official…I’ve gone insane but it’s all their fault for being such insanely talented actors who gave so much nuance to their performances

I hadn’t given this moment in “Crush” the attention it deserves but the reason it’s so important is this is the first time Buffy lays eyes on Spike after Dawn tells her Spike is completely in love with her and Spike is literally at her house charming her family and planning to ask her out on their first date NOT date aka the biggest and boldest move he has made in an attempt to move them from enemies to lovers

She’s been going on and onnnn about how sick and wrong it is and how freaked out she is about the idea of “the slayer” and “the slayer of slayers” in love since she found out BUT THEN SHE ACTUALLY LAYS EYES ON HIM AND SEES HIM FITTING PERFECTLY INTO HER FAMILY AND LIFE AND MAKING HER MOM SMILE AND HER SISTER FEEL NORMAL AND SAFE and she has this like soft shocked bewilderment and she’s looking to him like “care to explain why you’re sitting on my kitchen counter rn?” (them having secret conversations with just their eyes in front of her family makes me insane 😩) and not one single look of disgust that she’s been claiming to feel all day because she’s surprised and therefore her guards aren’t up

And he’s got his terrified deer in headlights look he gets every time he first sees her unexpectedly 😭

and it’s SO CUTE because he is so terrified and he knows this is lunacy and the idea of them is insane and makes no sense but still in his heart of hearts he is a brave, vulnerable romantic. Shooting his shot just like he did with Cecily because “fella’s gotta try” compared to Angel who stalked her for over a YEAR before introducing himself and was the most wishy-washy, bread crumbing mother fucker when it came to actually being with her and Riley who had to be told he liked her and then had to get a bunch of help from Willow before he even made a move. Riley and Angel are genuinely both cowards who want to play the hero but never truly had the courage to do so which is why they always infantilized and shamed/guilted Buffy into being smaller to make them feel bigger which is the CORE of why Spike is literally the only one of all of Buffy’s romantic interests worthy of her because of his bravery, despite knowing with the utmost certainty he will fail and get hurt over and over again, that doesn’t stop him from trying anyway. He’s the only one brave enough and tbh crazy enough to love Buffy Summers in the ways she both needs and deserves.

And I SWEAR the softness in her gaze and overall demeanor of dazed bewilderment and considering what she’s seeing in front of her just gives off this vibe to me that a part of her really likes the scene she’s walked into, the part of her Dawn represents that’s considering, again (but now with new light because I think she’s already considered it after “Something Blue”) what her life would be like if she dated Spike. It’s this TINY MOMENT of her girlhood that still exists under her slayer armor shining through - she’s seeing her (forbidden) crush after finding out she’s his (forbidden) crush too and he’s in her kitchen!! Making an effort with her family and he’s so CUTE and laughing and she basically classic Buffy swoons over a cute boy for just a second before her armor is back on and it’s actually too much for me

AND SPIKE uggghh 😭 he shifts sitting up taller like his inner William standing up when his lady walks in combined with his punk persona that meets every challenge head on but always with a bit of attitude and swagger. Already ready for the battle that is William the Bloody trying to love The Slayer.

This tiny moment of unspoken communication and body language perfectly encompasses what they both bring out in and give to each other and I’m obsessed. Spike brings out the abandoned young girl who is soft and vulnerable and just needs love and support and Buffy gives our brave, big-hearted, protective warrior looking for his place of belonging and people finally worthy of his love that he can care for and protect.

Am I insane for writing all of this about a 2 second clip? Yes, yes I am but this moment is IMPORTANT and it happens so quickly yet it contains so much and completely backs up what I already knew about this episode which was that the only reason Buffy was making such a big deal about Spike being in love with her is because she’s VERY attracted to him but that was so much easier to ignore before she knew the feelings were reciprocated. If she didn’t care about Spike she wouldn’t care about his feelings because they would be of no consequence to her but now…. her crush on her mortal enemy that’s killed two slayers wasn’t a big deal because it was literally never gonna happen…… suddenly could happen and she was SO unprepared for how to handle all of that and so overcompensating the entire episode and beyond 😹😹😹 because also it’s been well established how perceptive Spike is about how people are doing and what they’re feeling so when he says he knows there is something between them he’s not being delusional he is right on the money which freaks her out even more because how could he know about something she didn’t know about herself AGAIN 😹

[cosmicjoke]

What Levi's Lack of Response to His Assault Tells Us:

Something else I want to talk about in "Bad Boy" is how Levi reacts to the treatment of the men who assault him, and what it tells us about him and his expectations for how he should or would be treated.

He doesn't cry, and he doesn't beg, and he doesn't expect anyone to help him.  He’s essentially non-reactive. 

Levi nearly gets beaten to death, and he's obviously in extraordinary pain, and he also gets threatened with sexual abuse, assault and kidnapping.  But he never really shows any fear, even as his face is twisted in agony and desperation, and he never really protests the treatment he's receiving, either through tears or pleading. He never shows any offense at how they speak to and about him. He never asks them to stop hurting him, and he never even tries to defend himself or get away. Even after being brutally beaten, kicked viciously in the chest/abdomen, he only tells the men to give his mother's tea set to him, that it belonged to her. He doesn't beg them to stop, or beg for mercy, or for his life, he simply keeps insisting that the set isn't theirs.

What this tells us about Levi is that he's used to this kind of treatment.

A child who wasn't used to being beaten or roughed up in this manner, or even threatened in this way, would with certainty cry and even fall into hysterics. They would scream and beg and cry for help. They would be sobbing. They would be terrified.

But Levi displays none of these behaviors. In fact, he even shows defiance in the face of their treatment, insisting they give him back what, by rights, belongs to him, and only fights back when they start speaking ill of his mother, something which highlights, once again, Levi's heartbreaking and inherent selflessness, that even then he felt others were worth fighting for, even as he felt no such inclination to fight for himself, something we see in him again and again throughout the main story. He did this knowing it was only going to result in him being hit again, knowing it was only going to result in him being more badly beaten.   He was willing to take that to defend his mother.

But again, Levi's lack of response, his lack of tears, lack of fear, lack of any attempt toward self-preservation, tells us that Levi is used to being smacked around and beaten up. That he's beaten almost to death, and he still doesn't show any fear or beg for mercy shows he's been raised to expect this kind of treatment, and that he's been raised to believe this is what the world is, and this is how people will treat you, that this is how he expects people to treat him.

It's pretty obvious to me from this that Kenny used to beat Levi, and that he let Levi get beaten by other men, probably in some twisted attempt to bring out Levi's power.

Further, the fact that Levi showed no, true initiative to fight for himself, despite the kind of treatment and threats he was being subjected to, shows that he didn't care if he lived or died, that he had no real regard for his own life, well-being or safety. It shows a breathtaking lack of self-worth. 

That’s what happens to a person who’s been repeatedly abused and exposed to deep trauma, physical, emotional, and mental, at the very least.

Further still, when Levi finally does fight back, his attack is completely ineffectual.  This shows us that, while Kenny taught Levi to fight, Levi himself showed no real ability, strength, talent for or natural inclination toward violence.  Despite Kenny’s lessons, Levi is still helpless, and even exceptionally so.  I’ve always thought if someone with a propensity for violence, like Eren, for example, had received the kind of training Levi did, he would have been deadly.  He was deadly, even without training, as we see with how he approaches Mikasa's kidnappers.  But we see here that Levi is completely at the mercy of these men, because, as I’ve said again and again, Levi isn’t naturally inclined toward violence.  I don’t think it comes naturally to him at all.  What this tells us is that, almost certainly, Levi was on the receiving end of many bad beatings without being able to actually defend himself, and doubtless all manner of other abuses.  And that would only have been worsened by what we see here in him, which is a total lack of will to live or sense of self-preservation. 

It isn’t even a will to live that makes Levi eventually kill these men.  It’s simply the awakening of his Ackerman powers, compelling him to act in defense of himself without thought, an instinct to survive sparked and driven by something outside himself. 

This story just continues to shatter my heart into pieces.

Levi really is a miracle of a man.  That he’s still so good, and so caring, and fights so hard for others, despite all of this… God, it’s truly devastatingly tragic. 

[arealphrooblem]

Mutually Assured Destruction Pt 2

THANK YOU SO MUCH to the huge response to this, I never expected that being so new to this circle of writers. I squealed at every like and reblog and comment.

Synopsis: Villain x Civilian. Civilian can sense other people's powers through auras but hides this ability. They are terrified of the most boring person at their office job, who hides the most powerful aura Civilian has ever felt.

Part 1 here. Tagging @heroes-villains-side-blog and @follow-me-into-the-fog

The taqueria was dimly lit with Formica tables and brightly colored murals of vaguely Mexican landscapes, which meant the tacos were obscenely good.

Civilian tried hard not to be grateful as they bit into their taco as delicately as they could, their fingers stained with the mess of the previous taco. Jonathan’s tacos, on the other hand, had remarkable structural integrity and did not break once.

“How are you doing that?” they blurted out.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow as he dotted away taco grease with his napkin. “Doing what?”

“Your tacos don’t fall apart. How?”

“Perhaps that’s my power.” He smirked.

Civilian rolled their eyes, trying not to let the spike in their heart rate show on their face. So caught up in the surrealness of a dinner date, they had almost forgotten just what a precarious position they were in.

In fact, despite the blatant coercion to be here, this did not rank as the worst date Civilian ever had. Not even in the top ten. Jonathan paid for dinner, fetched napkins and extra beer, and allowed Civilian the space to quietly freak out while he ate in contented silence.

“I’ve never had a taco shell that didn’t break in my entire life, so I almost believe you.”

He gives them that same calculating stare he did in the elevator. “You’re not curious about what I can do?”

“No.” (A lie).

“Really? Not even a little?”

“I think knowing would make it worse.” (The truth).

Just knowing his aura has garnered too much attention as it was.

He smirked. “Afraid if you knew, I’d never let you go?”

Hearing their deepest fear voiced aloud caused a dizzy swoop in their gut. It wasn’t just Jonathan Civilian had to worry about. If anyone knew their true power, they would be a target to the Agency, to other villains, to the government. They could kiss their freedom goodbye.

Being “courted” by Jonathan was the least of their worries, and yet it meant the the threat of their freedom as a constant presence. If there was a chance Civilian could talk their way out of this arrangement, they had to take it.

Civilian swallowed. “You’re not actually serious about this, right? This fake dating thing?”

“Of course I’m serious.” He leaned forward across the table and Civilian unconsciously mirrored him. “I have certain plans in place. You are the one person who could disrupt them.”

“The last thing I want is to get involved with whatever the hell it is you’re doing,” Civilian hissed. “I’m not a hero.”

“There’s no way I can know right now that with any certainty. And so, until I do, you will have a very dedicated and considerate partner.”

Civilian bit back a groan as they imagined the kind of gossip this sudden relationship would inspire, especially since Civilian tried so hard to avoid Jonathan before. Wait a second . . .

“HR doesn’t allow workplace relationships,” they said triumphantly. “They would fire us.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he found Civilian’s protests amusing. “That rule only bans relationships between superiors and the people that work under them. It doesn’t apply to us. Don’t worry, I will file our relationship with HR tomorrow morning since tonight marks our first date.”

Shit damn fuck. Civilian could protest the relationship or they could report Jonathan to HR for stalking or harassment but that only puts a target on Civilian’s back for his retaliation. He could kill them or worse -- report them.

Mutually assured destruction.

Jonathan drains the rest of his beer before nodding to Civilian’s unfinished food.

“Let me get you a to-go box and we shall be on our way, then?”

He drove them back to the parking garage at work and walked Civilian to their car. Civilian wasted no time getting their keys out, gripped by the sudden fear that perhaps Jonathan would reconsider letting them walk free.

And indeed when his hand darted out and gripped their door before it could shut, Civilian’s heart leaped in their throat.

“You’re going to leave before our goodnight kiss?” he asked, his gaze expectant and serious.

“What?” Civilian choked.

He held that stare for a moment before an evil smirk broke across his face.

“The look on your face. I should be insulted at how abhorrent the thought is to you. Goodnight, Civilian. I will see you in the morning.”

A threat and a promise.

Civilian feels the weight of his stare all the way out to the streets.

Part Three Here

[babyblue711]

Loyalty

Aemond Targaryen (HOTD) x Alys Rivers - Part 1 Summary: Alys reflects on her time at Harrenhal under the reign of the Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen. Words: 2.6K

Chapter Warnings: NSFW, Dubcon, Sexual Content 18+, Smut, War Things, Typical Westeros Misogyny A/N: I fully realize not everyone is an Alys fan and that is perfectly fine. Perhaps once the show airs, I'll change my opinion too. But, as of right now, this is fanfiction and, therefore, my fantasy. I personally tried to humanize Alys, which I hope you all will see. As always, I love reading your thoughts, comments, and reblogs! 😘 And - No tag list since I don't know who will be in to Alysmond. 💙 Beta read by the Queen herself: @arcielee 💙 Beautiful banner gif by the one and only: @myfandomprompts

The prince was insatiable at times.

Sometimes he was gentle, sometimes rough. Though she never knew what she was going to get, the news from the battlefront and the state of affairs of the kingdom often foretold the sort of night she could expect from the Prince Regent.

With the weight of the green faction firmly resting on his shoulders, periodically he would be consumed by raw desire; he was fueled by passion, fueled by rage, fueled by an innate need to dominate and control, as certainty was a rare commodity given the unpredictable nature of war. On those nights, his touch was borderline cruel, harsh and demanding, and she would brace herself, anticipating the forcefulness with which he would claim her, feeling a mixture of pleasure and pain as their bodies collided. She didn’t know how to tell him ‘no’. She didn’t think she could. She needed him just as much as he needed her… or so she was leading him to believe. 

But at other times, he would approach her with a soft touch, his fingertips tracing delicate patterns along her skin, his words filled with warmth, just like the first night they spent together. Those were the nights when she had felt cherished and safe, enveloped in his affection and care. She couldn’t ever remember a time where any man of higher standing had ever worshiped her in such a tender way. 

Presently confined within the ominous black walls of Harrenhal, tonight she is suffering the prince’s wrath. The recent tidings are dire: Kings Landing has fallen into the hands of the enemy, igniting the red hot rage of the dragon. She knows Aemond feels solely responsible for this significant blow to their cause, for leaving his family unprotected as he seeks out his greatest foe, terrified of what is happening to those he has left behind. Tonight, he uses their intimacy as a conduit for his pent-up emotions, unleashing his fury upon her in a desperate attempt to find temporary respite from the anarchy gripping the Seven Kingdoms and the chaos of his own soul.

In the dimly lit chamber, the air is heavy with tension and the scent of burning candles. Pinned to the bed underneath him, his long fingered hand is wrapped firmly around her throat as he thrusts powerfully, hips snapping into her with a brutal force, a look of utter madness in his lone purple eye. His grip tightens on her throat as his unhinged gaze flicks from her bouncing breasts up to her face. 

“Why couldn’t you have told me about this before?” he demands with a harsh growl that echoes off the stone walls, his fingers digging into the delicate skin of her throat so that she can barely breathe, let alone articulate an answer. She chokes slightly, wrapping a dainty hand around his wrist, begging with her eyes for him to soften his grip, which mercifully he does so she can speak.

“My prince,” she gasps as he continues to rut into her, “My visions do not work on command…” She attempts to explain but anger clouds his face and his grip tightens once more on her throat, cutting off any further speech. The Prince Regent does not want to hear her excuses. His desperation and anger is evident in every movement, in every harsh word, in every mark he leaves upon her body. She clenches her jaw and tries not to whimper as his teeth sink into the soft flesh of her neck and breasts, afraid weakness will spur him on further; mentally, she tries to disassociate from what is currently happening to her. She is fully aware that he sees her as a means to an end, a tool to gain an advantage in the chaos of war; she purposefully has supplanted herself in this position, just as he is her mechanism for survival in return.

She knows deep down that she cannot fulfill his demands; her gifted visions do not bend to her whim or will, and she cannot control what they show her. To admit this to him would mean certain death, and so she bears the pain of his grip, the forcefulness of his thrusts, and the weight of his expectations, all while concealing the truth that she cannot deliver what he seeks.

With a guttural groan, his hips stutter as he spills deep inside of her, his fearsome eye closed in some semblance of bliss as he reaches his peak. Without acknowledging any need for her pleasure, he tucks himself back in his pants and departs the room in silence, his rage barely satiated. 

Alys lays upon the bed, her chest rising and falling to catch the breath withheld from her while caught in Aemond’s iron grip. She shifts slightly into a more comfortable position, feeling the slickness between her thighs and, despite his brutality, she quietly hopes for a silver-haired babe, further securing her own position and a testament to her worth.

She wonders if Aemond does not think she is capable of having children and, therefore, is much less cautious where he spills his seed. Her moon’s blood is late, but that is not unusual for her, though she still thinks it is too early to tell if they have been successful yet. She rests a hand on her lower belly, willing her womb to quicken, something that hasn’t happened in years. 

Exhaustion tugs at the corners of her eyes as she rests, waiting for her soreness and aches to lessen so she may get a few hours sleep. Sighing deeply, she stares into the dying flames of the fire in the hearth and reflects on the last few months of being caught up in this accursed Targaryen civil war. Life with Aemond is, at least, a little better than when Daemon ruled these halls. The Rogue Prince had been a formidable presence, his sharp eyes saw through her facade of obedience from the moment he landed astride his fiery red dragon. She had never underestimated him, knowing that he would not be easy prey to be fooled by her own ambitions.  

But when Aemond descended from the heavens upon his colossal, ancient dragon, Alys suspected the young Prince Regent to be a lot more volatile, and thus, a little more vulnerable than his formidable uncle. Aemond was desperate to prove himself in the ongoing war, his ego inflated by the fact that he commanded the largest dragon in existence. His mere presence struck fear into the hearts of warriors, who readily bowed before him as he issued commands with an air of undeniable authority. Yet, beneath his bravado, Alys discerned a deep-seated fear—that of failing his family and being perceived as a disappointment.

Recognizing these traits, she decided to try to leverage this to her advantage. She harbored no ill will toward the prince; in fact, she had developed a fondness for the young man during his stay at the fortress. But she knew that sentimentality had no place in the games of power and politics that defined their lives; the world was cruel, especially to lowborn women, and no one in her position would turn down such an opportunity to wield the influence that came with being entwined with a Targaryen Prince. 

It still took considerable effort to gain Aemond's trust, considering his sharp intellect and initial tendency to see her as nothing more than a lowborn woman with limited utility. However, upon learning that she had some experience with the healing arts, he tasked her with tending to the injuries of his soldiers, which she executed without fail. 

It was one fateful night that the prince called upon her for help with his own affliction - the vicious scar that marred the left side of his beautiful face. She concocted a poultice aimed at soothing the damaged nerves around his missing eye that was causing him some discomfort that particular night. Witnessing the visible relief on his face once she had applied it, and taking advantage of being alone with the prince for the first time, she seized the opportunity to subtly offer strategic information, mainly concerning Daemon's previous tenure at Harrenhal. Aware of Aemond's desperation for any advantage in the ongoing war, especially for any knowledge that had to do with his uncle, Aemond clung to anything she could tell him about Daemon and his war strategy. She was aware of just enough information to be deemed useful and what she wasn’t aware of, she may have elaborated just a bit, as the prince would never know. This gesture swiftly elevated her status in his eyes, securing her a place in his inner circle sooner than she had even anticipated. 

But it wasn’t only Aemond she had to charm; she also understood the importance of gaining favor with Ser Criston Cole, the Hand of the King and Aemond's second in command. Although she suspected that Ser Criston could occasionally see through her intentions, she had a knack for manipulating him too.

Late one evening, and after a few too many cups of wine, she prophesied his future, whispering words that she knew would resonate with him as they gazed into the flames of the fire. Men in positions of power and influence loved to be told exactly what they wanted to hear and Ser Criston was no exception. Soon, both he and Aemond would come to depend on her clairvoyance much more than either should, but war often strove men to desperate measures and she delicately played this hand when she had no other choice.

Another aspect she did not expect to contest came a few weeks after Aemond and his army came to stay at Harrenhal. It was Aemond who turned their relationship into something more physical; whether it was brought on by boredom or loneliness, she’ll likely never know, but she certainly had not anticipated becoming the Prince Regent’s bedmate. She remembered the night well, the way his fingertips grazed her wrist lightly as she poured him more wine. The intense look of his eye was…different that night, a primal look of longing coupled with a smoldering desire. The bulge in his pants was obvious and it was clear what was intended from her that night.

Worried to displease the prince by refusing him, she settled on her knees in front of him as he sat by the fire. She held his gaze as she slowly unlaced his breeches, pulling his thick, veiny cock from the confines of his trousers, and began pleasuring him with her mouth. Wetness had formed between her own thighs as she sucked him with abandon, enjoying the way his sharp face contorted with the gratification she was giving him. When he shot his seed down her throat, she expected that to be the end of it… until he asked her to show him how to pleasure her in return.

She could perfectly recall the earnest look in his eye as she stared at him with bewilderment; it was highly unusual for a man to be concerned with a woman’s pleasure, let alone a high-born royal like himself. After a moment’s hesitation, she willingly agreed to his request and they spent the night exploring each other’s bodies; she taught the prince about the bundle of nerves located above her entrance and the special spot buried deep inside her cunt. He was an excellent student, mastering her body quicker than she thought possible. His expression was hungry with intensity when he watched her unravel underneath him as she succumbed to his touch, and she knew this gave him a different sense of power over her body. She encouraged this, fully committing to being the prince’s loyal servant in all things, further gaining his trust and, in return, his protection. 

She lost count how many times she came that night during their passionate lovemaking, and her hopes ignited further when he shot his seed deep into her cunt. Since then, he had called upon her almost every night to visit his bed, torturing her deliciously as her velvet walls clenched around him repeatedly, milking him dry as her cries of ecstasy filled his room. Afterwards, she would pray to the gods to bless her with his child.

However, she was beginning to wonder if she had played her part just a little too well. Unfortunately, the prince, gaining confidence in their arrangement, had started to abuse his position of power, more often than not just using her body as a vessel for only his pleasure. Her disappointment was palpable; he had shown so much promise and she thought she could teach him to be different, that he would continue to treat her with respect.

But such wishes were not to be, as dark thoughts of the first time she had suffered the prince’s wrath resurfaced. On that fateful night, after a particularly fearsome thunderstorm culminating with bad news of the war beyond Harrenhal, Aemond and Vhagar had descended from the storm-stricken sky in a fury, his dragon’s wings clapping louder than the thunder itself. As was customary, she was summoned to his chambers. Lightning flashed as she entered his dimly lit room, illuminating his countenance —a hauntingly beautiful sight. But as she caught sight of his murderous expression, dread filled her gut and she knew she was about to face the consequences for whatever misfortune had transpired.

Afterwards, he seemed to emerge from a trance, apologizing to her as he gazed upon the red marks from his fingers on her neck, the bite marks on her breasts, the bruises that littered her body. She was dumbstruck once more, never had a man shown remorse for hurting her before. As their tryst continued, their passionate lovemaking became rougher and more animalistic, her own pleasure forgotten at times as he used her body as a means to his own end, but she made the best of it, knowing that to bear his child would outweigh her suffering and reward her tenfold. 

Back in the room, these memories of Aemond lulled her to sleep as she curled in his bed, warm and comfortable from the smolder in the hearth. The reprieve was short lived as she was roughly shaken awake, startling at his harsh touch.

“Wake up,” Aemond says gruffly. “We’re leaving.” He refuses to answer any of her questions, throwing clothes at her and telling her to get dressed in a hurry. She has no choice but to obey, noticing he has given her breeches to pull on as well as several warm layers, including riding boots and soft leather gloves. 

The moon shines brightly in the nighttime sky as Aemond takes her by the hand, leading her outside the gates of Harrenhal where the immense form of Vhagar looms in the distance. Alys pulls back on Aemond’s arm, terrified, slowing her pace, her unusual attire dawning on her as it is obvious that the prince means for her to fly on Vhagar. The energy that emanates from the massive dragon is unlike anything she has ever felt before. This was an intelligent being that could not be tricked by pretty words or prophetic visions that danced in the flames, for she was fire incarnate herself.

Feeling her tug on his arm, Aemond whirls to face her, impatient, furious. Vhagar rumbles like thunder from behind him, disturbed by her rider’s erratic energy, but makes no effort to move as she waits for him to mount her. 

“Aemond…” Alys starts to sputter, “I - I don’t think she’ll let me ride...?” Terror clutches at her throat as she tries to stress to him the dire warning in the pit of her stomach, but he only smirks, taking hold of her chin with his thumb and forefinger, his breath fanning her face. 

“Vhagar does as I command,” he says confidently as if this could assuage her fear, “but I am going to need your help with something else.”

Part 2 - WIP

[attollogame]

hi!! i've looked up and down your blog & can't seem to find somewhere i can read your the idol story-- i remember i really enjoyed it way back when it was on ao3, but you did say that you would take it down when published. is there anywhere i can find it? i'd love to buy it!!

I'll do you one better <3

The Idol

There is no one in the community who can say, with absolute certainty, when It arrived. It was as though one day we all woke up in synchrony to find Its great, twisted form looming over the temple-goers. Gone was the image of our patron god, replaced with one of an entity even the most educated of our priests could not discern. 

Naturally, there was an investigation. 

Self-proclaimed mages and scholars alike approached the statue to run their hands along the cold stone surface. They documented each notch and crevice that carved out Its form and they had artists—the most skilled in the city—map out the features so that we could look upon Its face in Its entirety. 

The outcome of this order was nothing short of sacrilegious.  

The Idol, as It would come to be known, appeared as though a man who knew of a god only by word of mouth had tried to replicate its form in the most defamatory of ways. Six great wings extended from Its body; four outstretched to cover the temple walls, and two folded in to cover Its gaze, as though It deemed us unworthy to look upon. Eyes, which should have been on Its face, were instead interspersed between the delicately carved feathers. Their gaze held malice within it. 

“It is a parasite, Malchus,” my mother hissed when I asked her about It. “It slithered out from whatever den It was sired in, and now calls our home Its own. It will uproot and consume us all by summer's end.” 

She was not the only one with this belief. I had heard the whispers of the clergy as they exchanged their thoughts about our predicament. The doors to the worship chamber were sealed until further notice—a first in over three decades—and any tribute to our patron god was directed to take place within our own homes. The temple went from the heart of the community to a shell of its former self within a few days; my mother, a temple cleaner, now spent most of her time dusting away cobwebs rather than mud trekked in by weary travelers. 

Our entire manner of living was usurped by the arrival of this one, singular beast. 

What did I think of it? I, the boy who hid behind his mothers skirts as priests walked by, who immersed himself in the murmurs and the prayers of the terrified within the altar room? 

I could not see with my eyes—a trait I was born with, barring me from knowing any reality other than darkness. To me, what the Idol was or what intention it held was of the lowest priority in my life. 

____________________________

Against my mothers predictions, it took several years before any changes began, and they did so when Phameus collapsed outside of the chamber. 

I remember hearing the sound of his body hitting the floor, his choking breaths and twitching limbs making contact with stone. The temple healer—a man by the name of Adon—had dragged him out of the halls and into the healing chambers mere meters away. I had been listening from the shadows up until the moment that the chamber doors slammed shut, to which I then crept forward until I hovered just outside their wooden barriers. 

I only managed to capture brief snippets of the conversation within, all of which came from Adon himself. Growing bored with the discussion, I had moved to draw away from the doors and back to my own chambers when a new, unexpected voice broke the reverie. 

I was familiar with Phameus. He was a soft-spoken man and the youngest to join the clergy. Phameus had been born with a stutter that had remained prevalent even after coming to the temple, which caused him to trip over words and draw out sounds. The voice within the room belonged to neither him nor Adon; it did not stutter, it was not soft. It sounded as though multiple beings sought to speak at once, with no discernible gender to be pried from the mix, uttering words in a tongue I could not comprehend. 

It spoke only for a moment before the healing chamber doors were forced open and Adon himself fell through.

I could hear his shock. I could hear the way his nails scraped along the stone and how they accompanied the whimpering cries that clawed their way out from his throat. I could smell that vile stench of piss and something older, something rotten, hanging off of his body. 

I pressed my back against the wall as heat flooded out from within the healing room. If Adon registered my presence at all, I was given no acknowledgement before he clambered to his feet and bolted down the hall. 

I was left in silence. The voices had ceased, and when I tilted my head towards the healing chamber to hear evidence of another presence, the silence only prevailed. If Phameus had been inside with Adon at any point, he was not there anymore. 

“I told you,” my mother had moaned when I recounted the events to her later that night. “I told you! It is a parasite! Not only has It infected our home, but now It parades through our community with the mask of our clergyman on Its face!” 

I did not respond, choosing to busy myself with dinner instead. In my mind I replayed that voice with the different pitches and timbres Its words had carried. I had only been able to make out a few, brief snippets before Adon shattered the moment; 

Ihr clya cæn.

To the clergy, perhaps they held significance. But to a temple cleaner's son such as myself, they were as meaningful as the dirt that gets swept away. 

__________________________

Another year passed before It spoke again. 

We of the temple came to the agreement that whatever had happened to Phameus was tied to The Idol, which still stood silent in the sealed off worship chambers. Explaining this theory to the community—especially Phameus’ father—had proven a fruitless effort. In response to the clergy’s claims, the civilians rose up with threats of violence against the temple; they were willing to rip the wood apart with their bare hands if it meant that whatever resided behind those doors would be returned to the unholy land that sired It. The Head Priest—a towering, bitter man—had taken on his most placating tone and ensured the community that he and the others would deal with the situation swiftly. 

They did not anticipate The Idol to have an agenda of Its own. 

The voice, which I had heard a year prior in that chamber hallway, now came back through the mouth of Jezebel, another temple cleaner like my mother and I, and one who was born into the most unfortunate of circumstances. She was a timid girl who spent many of her days slouched over cleaning rags, and when she was not doing that, she sought for the shadows in the corner of the rooms to hide her away. She was precisely what the clergy wanted in a cleaner—silent, out of sight, out of mind. 

Which was why we were all taken aback when she stumbled into the meeting chamber in the early hours of the morning light. I knew right away when that fragrance returned—that horrible, rotting smell that had clung to Adon's body when he fell before me—what had happened to her. Jezebel was no longer silent. She broke through the doors wailing like a flock of demons were pursuing her, tearing at her clothes and her flesh with every step she took.  A sickening, dripping noise filled the chamber, and with each droplet that hit the stone the rotten scent only grew. 

One.

Two.

Three.

I counted them as they collided with the tile below. The rate of contact was heavy; whatever was spilling from her body to the earth below was thick, and dense, and coming in great volumes. 

We did not speak—but Jezebel did. 

“Pious fathers,” she whimpered, her voice that strange cacophony of tones that had sung in my nightmares for a year now, “do you keep me locked away to stave off your misfortune? Or perhaps my arrival was too abrupt for your feeble hearts?” 

A heavy silence had descended on the hall as we waited for her to continue. I was sure she was smiling—perhaps at all of us, perhaps at the Head Priest, or perhaps at me in specific. It must have known that I was one of two who bore witness to It before. I, like a lamb facing a wolf, shrunk behind the Head Priest in search of comfort, the scent of incense my only guide to reassure me it was him. 

“Come, father. Let me share my thoughts with you like all the others have—a confession, of sorts. Let me give you answers to the questions that burn in your mind from the mouth of the plague itself.” There was joy in her voice, but it sounded broken, and disjointed, and terribly wrong. The Head Priest descended from his podium at her call and although I gripped onto his hands and his robes in a bid to stop him, he shrugged off all of my attempts. I could only be an unwilling audience to the disaster that was set to unfold.  

The others watched them vanish into the worship chambers together. I listened intently to the sound of their footsteps, my hands wrung together with anxiety—not for the well being of the Head Priest, but for the answers being spoken behind those doors that we continued to remain un-privy too. 

It was on this day, the day of Jezebel’s grievance and The Idols honeyed offering, where my role in this tale first began. 

___________________________

Time passed since that reckoning in the meeting chambers. Jezebel, much like Phameus, vanished shortly thereafter; all that was left of her presence was a vacant corner where she once stood. Her absence soon became as forgettable as she was until the day she finally spoke. 

The Head Priest had returned to us in silence. He refused to entertain anyone for several hours, and when he finally did emerge from his rooms, he granted us merely a taste of the bitter fruit he had consumed. 

We were not to speak the name of our patron god any further. All icons, altars, and idols of his presence were to be removed henceforth. I remember the outcry of the community, and I remember the Head Priest's comments; it was under jurisdiction that these actions were taking place. Remove the patron god, or we would gradually begin to see a reduction in our community numbers. The Idol had already claimed two; Jezebel and Phameus both had shrines in their honour buried in the back of the community. I was one of few who paid tribute to them. 

Losing a child was the worst punishment to face, and no one wanted to endure what their families had. The loss of a child meant a broken branch in the family lineage—something that, in many of our cases, could never be repaired. 

So a pyre was built. A great, roaring flame that seemed to laugh as it crackled, bellowing out ashes that recounted our history. It was the body of the god, I remember thinking. The scent was that of his flesh bubbling and blistering in the flame and the crackle his despondent cries as his memory was torn away. 

We had fed our protector to the beast in our house, and now we stood as nothing but pariahs to our beliefs. 

___________________________

“I think I know Its name.” 

Sidon’s voice breaks me from my memories and I twist in confusion. He is around twenty three years old, the same age as I, but he retains the boyish attitude of his youth. His hair is a chaos of curls, which I know from the times I played with them between my fingers, and he stands out against the dreariness of the temple as my own private source of comfort. Even now, the devious tone he carries is foreign to this place. 

“What do you mean?” I ask, allowing only a hint of uncertainty to creep into my voice. “Whose name?”

Sidon barely hesitates as he turns me towards where, many years earlier, our Head Priest had come to his final conclusions. Life has drawn to an ebb and flow since this time. We, having grown to become cleaners ourselves, now spend most of our time wiping away the black slime that seems to seep from the temple's decaying foundations. The rotten scent that filled the air around Jezebel has taken a permanent residence in the halls. Even those who pass the worship chamber doors fall out of their conversations and into silence, as if convinced that even breathing in that direction will curse them. 

Truthfully, it might. 

“The Idol. It is not truly a god, you know,” he hums, tapping my right wrist—a quirk he does when speaking to ensure I listen. “Eitan says that he saw It crawling back beneath the statue's feet. Since when do gods crawl on the ground like men?”

Sidon’s words sit heavily in my mind as I ring out my rag in a contemplative silence. The studies that he and I had listened to while growing up made clear the differences between ourselves and our patron god; his divinity prevented him from stepping onto the earth that we reside on, for doing so would taint his form. To hear that The Idol we now worship to preserve our lives crawls beneath the floorboards like a common rat is uncomfortable knowledge. I drop the rag down into the bucket and turn my head towards where I know Sidon stands. 

“What do you mean to do about this?” I muse, wiping my hands on my pants. “It would be good to remember that Eitan is not the most honest. He smuggles extra bread rolls underneath his shirt nearly every night.” 

A scoff is the only response I receive, followed by the thump of Sidon dropping his own rag. I bet his hands must be as black as the night after our cleaning. I know mine surely are. “That's why I told you. I want you to come with me to find out just how true Eitan’s words are. If they're false, then we have nothing to worry about.”

“And if they're true?” I shake my head. “Sidon, you and I have both heard of the consequences inflicted upon those who enter the worship chamber. The miasma, the night terrors, those are real. Eitan’s words may be false, but what those people endure daily is certainly not.” 

I turn away to make it clear that the discussion is over, but I am stopped in my tracks when Sidon wraps his hand around my right wrist. His grip is warm and comforting, and he reaches up with his other hand to cup my chin. I know he's smiling at me before he even speaks, and the image I've carefully constructed in my mind from touching those upturned lips fills me with warmth. I know I'll do as he asks before he even asks it. 

“One night, for a few moments. We sneak in through the servant entrances, we check The Idol, and then we leave before anyone suspects a thing.” His thumb caresses the inside of my wrist, and I bite down on my lip. Cheater. “Please?”

I stand facing away from him, caught between my morals and my affections for the man holding my wrist. It's not a hard choice to make in the end; I, like my mother, wear my heart on my sleeve. 

“Fine,” I sigh, closing my eyes as I do so. “One night.” 

______________

The air feels static as I wait for Sidon to come. I had spent the entire day meticulously rearranging my chambers in order to keep my mind off of things, only to find myself falling back into rumination with each shift I made. I was fortunate enough that, before the chambers were closed, my mother had been the individual assigned to clean by our patron god’s feet. I grew up within those walls, basking in the scent of incense and sage while the faint sounds of my mother’s sweeping filled the air. I wonder how different it will be for Sidon and I when we go in there tonight. 

I wonder if this is worth the sacrifice of those memories?

My answer is given to me by a quiet rapping against my door. I get up from the bed and crack open the door enough so that I can capture the scent—dirt and miasma—of my dear friend. He presses a single finger to my lips to indicate my silence before grasping my wrist. I nod and slip out of the room, closing the door behind me as softly as I can. As soon as I'm standing out in the hall with him, Sidon turns on his heels and sets off at a brisk pace, hardly waiting for me to collect myself. 

“Sidon!” I hiss under my breath, dogging after him like some child following their parents’ steps. “Sidon, slow down!” 

Whether he heard me or not I’ll never know, because as soon as we round the corner Sidon comes to a stop, causing me to collide into his back. I don’t need to ask him the reason for his pause. 

Because this? This didn’t make sense. 

My room is at least twenty minutes down the hall from this chamber. I know this because I had specifically chosen the farthest room from the chamber that I could possibly afford; I didn’t want the darkened energy that seemed to hover around the entrance creeping its way into my room at night. I already had horrible visions of unseen hands wrapping themselves around my throat, of a body pressing against mine until I cannot move, of eyes like predators watching me from all corners, always watching. I didn’t need them to get worse. 

“Sidon,” I began again, reaching out to touch his arm, only to have him jerk away from my reach. He doesn’t even grant a response as he moves past the worship chamber doors and towards a side-hall where the servants entrance resides. I stand, rooted in place with uncertainty. All of the anxieties that I try so hard to repress are now blooming in my chest and dancing their way through my veins, blurring my thoughts and quickening my breaths as I hear Sidon’s footsteps disappear. 

This is wrong. In fact, this is not just wrong, it’s downright criminal. We shouldn’t be trying to deduce the divinity of whatever resides within this chamber; we should be trying to banish It, like the community wants. We aren't meant to play martyr in this life. 

And yet, I can’t let him do this alone. If I let him go in there and die for whatever being, god or not, that slumbers beneath that Idol’s feet, then I, too, would die regardless. 

So I force my feet to move. I force myself to take step after step, and I follow Sidon.  

_______________

The chamber is exactly how I remember it from years before. The scent of incense hangs faintly in the air, and there’s a certain warmth that pulls at my heart. It reminds me of the stories I heard as I grew up; of kindness, of love. The tiled floors still cause my footsteps to echo out, bouncing off of the towering ceiling I know hangs above us, and I can’t help but stretch my arms upwards. 

The only difference is The Idol. I know that It sits there, watching me relive my childhood joy. Six wings. Hundreds of eyes. A great, looming body that stretches out to me. The only difference now is the dripping sound that I hear, a sound that brings me back to Jezebel’s reckoning. It’s the black liquid that we’ve been cleaning from the temple foundations for months, steadily flowing from The Idol to rot away the temple floor beneath Its body. 

“Come,” Sidon murmurs, his voice still booming in the repressive stillness of the room. “The entrance is at the feet.”

“Did Eitan tell you this?” I ask, following after him. Sidon offers no response—but something tells me that he’s smiling, that my question amuses him. As I approach The Idol’s base, the rotten scent seems stronger here than anywhere else, to the point that I’m swaying with the emotions I feel. I clench my jaw as I follow after Sidon. 

Eitan, for once, is truthful. As soon as Sidon and I reach the final step, I feel a gust of cold, bitter wind brush along my cheeks. A soft swear escapes from my lips as I drink in its touch. Sidon says nothing. Instead, I hear him approach the entrance, his hand pressing against The Idol’s base with a soft thump. 

“Let’s go,” is all he offers as he moves further from where I stand. My mind draws a blank and I find myself unable to say any words of protest before his footsteps vanish once more. We had agreed to confirm that the creature crawled on our grounds; we had not agreed to go hunting after It like fools. I hesitate again, torn between what I know is right and what my loyalty to my beloved says. Once again, the decision is easily made. 

I approach the hole and, taking a deep breath, I follow into the abyss. 

________

There's a room beneath The Idol’s feet. It’s a cavern so vast that I find it hard to determine its actual size. The sound of water hitting something solid echoes through the air, and fragrant decay hangs heavy around us. I stumble a few times as I follow Sidon’s fervorous steps. He’s moving so quickly that I find myself out of breath and I’m forced to press my hand against one of the walls. 

I feel a wetness on my skin. Even as I pull away, I know it isn’t water. I flex my hands into fists and try not to think about this as I continue to follow Sidon down. 

“How long do you intend to keep us here?” I murmur as we make another turn. We’ve turned so many times now that I’ve lost count—surely we’re just walking in one great circle? 

“Just a bit further ahead,” Sidon replies, increasing his pace once more. My brow furrows in concern as I continue to trail after him. My mother’s words are ringing through my mind right now, scolding me for all the irresponsible decisions I’ve ever made, and how this one surely is the greatest. I trust Sidon with my life, yes, but that doesn’t mean I wish to lose it any time soon. 

I only know he’s stopped when I bump into him. He’s unnaturally still, even for Sidon’s standards, and I reach out to press a hand on his broad back in concern. 

“What do you see?” I ask. He is my eyes in this moment. 

“Stars.” He steps forward and I do as well, ever trailing. We must’ve entered another room because the walls seem farther apart than before; there’s a cool breeze brushing against my cheeks again, carrying that heady, rotten scent on its back. I push forward to stand beside Sidon rather than behind, and my feet come to a stop at the edge of what seems to be a drop. 

A cavern, perhaps? A chasm? 

Maybe this is the entrance to the underworld our priests have so desperately sought?

“Sidon,” I murmur again, “where do you see the stars?”

“Everywhere.” Sidon’s hand comes down to grasp my arm. “They are everywhere, Malchus. Dots of light, swirling around our heads, just waiting for us to fall. They create patterns and tell stories of the people who live before us. They are burning so brightly.”

His finger taps my wrist. 

My left wrist. 

“This means they are close to their end, no?” 

My heart drops to my stomach as I let his words sink in. I cannot see with my eyes. Despite this, I should have asked the others, I should have been concerned with The Idol’s appearance. Phameus, Jezebel. My mother said once that It paraded through our community with the mask of a clergyman on Its unholy face. 

It seems to have traded that for the mask of my lover instead. 

“You've been watching me for many years, have you not?” The Idol sighs, continuing to tap my wrist. I don’t move against Its advances. It would be a death sentence for me to do so, so close to a drop like this. 

I have been made a fool. 

 “We've been visiting each other in our dreams since the moment you stood outside of that healing chamber, have we not?” It laughs, Sidon's voice now substituted for a tone that sounds of both man and woman; it slithers like a serpent over my body and into my mind, burrowing itself deep into my thoughts. I shiver at the intrusion. "Although you still have yet to see me."

"Something I'm grateful for." This is all I can offer. My loss of sight has granted me a blessing in that it's spared me from seeing The Idol’s grotesque form. There's a tutting noise as It moves closer. 

"Not good!" It sighs, hot breath fanning over my face. "Do you know I was once called the most beautiful of the divine? I used to have others, both mortal and not, kneeling at my feet, begging me to grace their bedchambers each night. I was the source of wars, of betrayals, of events that shaped the very history you exist for!"

There's a horrible spitting noise as The Idol pulls back. When It leans close again, It smells of the rotten fragrance that parades the entire chamber.

"Sweet Helen was a mere trinket compared to the likes of me." 

"Then why are you here?" Death seems unavoidable to me at this point. Even if The Idol lets me go, I have no knowledge on how to return to the surface. No one knows that I'm here. I will walk forever until I finally collapse, and Sidon… 

My heart aches as realization settles in. Sidon has likely met the same fate as Jezebel and Phameus.

"If you are so desired by man and god alike, why do you spend your nights crawling along a temple floor like a common cockroach?" I flinch as The Idol’s grip tightens. "This seems unbefitting for someone who puts the renown Helen to shame, no?" 

"Your sharp tongue exists to balance out your lack of eyes," The Idol hisses, pressing closer to me still. "No human would dare speak to me in such a manner. Little dreamer, I have killed for far less." 

"Then why am I still here?" The question rises in my mind like the morning sun, burning out the shadows that colluded my thoughts ever since The Idol first began to speak. If It has killed for less, why does It allow me to remain? 

"Why have you not consumed me like you did Phameus, or Jezebel? Like… like Sidon, or those that came before them? Why lure me here?"

The Idol remains silent against my questioning. It's only when the words begin to die on my tongue and the last traces of my voice carry out to the darkness that It moves. I'm pushed back as It steps in front of me, blocking me from the chasm below. 

It's tall. I can visualize Its six wings and innumerable eyes in my mind, the horrible descriptions the community members provided me with as vivid as a dream. My breath catches in my throat as It leans closer, closer, until Its unseen mouth is inches from my own. 

It means to consume me. 

"You wanted someone to hear you," I whisper, my breath mingling with Its own. "That is all you ever wanted. That is why you wore the face of the community, why you attached yourself to Phameus, why you made Jezebel run through those doors. That is why you wore the face of Sidon to lure me down here. I am the only one who has heard you." 

There's a moment of silence, and then a low, rumbling sound emanates from The Idol. It grows and grows in volume until laughter fills the chamber, booming around me like the performance of a thousand men. My hands come up to cover my ears and The Idol captures them in Its own. 

"You humans love to make yourselves the central characters, do you not? Every event always needs to tie back to you somehow. It never fails to amuse me." I feel The Idol run Its thumb along my wrist. They feel like human hands still, as warm and as comforting as Sidon's were. The thought of this parasite still wearing his face makes my stomach roll. 

"However, I'm not laughing at you this time." A sigh, one that sounds as though it carries the weight of a thousand years. "I'm laughing at myself. Your lack of sight has forced me to dance into your mind, Malchus. You paid me attention when no one else would. I suppose this has made me pliant."

"Pliant?" I'm unsure if I like that response or not, but The Idol gives me no chance to decide. 

"I want to let you see," The Idol whispers, Its lips ghosting across my own, "And if you watch with me, I swear by my word I shall let your community be."

I inhale sharply at this. The Idol could be lying for all I know; the Head Priest did tell us that demons enjoy speaking honeyed-promises to lure the unwitting into their embrace. 

But this can save my mother. This can save my community. I can ensure that no Jezebel, no Phameus, no Sidon, ever occurs again. Saying no to a promise like this, even if it drips from the lips of a liar, would be signing a death sentence for thousands.  

So, I nod. 

There is a sharp pressure as It connects Its mouth to my own. I move to pull away, to escape from Its embrace, but my limbs raise a protest against my mind. I feel my body tumbling to the floor, and before I can react, the darkness I know is replaced with a darkness unfound. 

________

I'm in a room, lying in a bed of silk and satin, blanketed by a ceiling of stars. They shift and flow like gentle waves, as though a nebulous sea is above me. When I stare around the room, I realize I'm not the only one present. Others reside in the corners and the floors; some look like myself, some remain an amalgamation of wings, eyes, and teeth, bejewelled and wrapped in velvet and silk. The air smells bitter, like sex and sacrilege, and heady breaths break a heavy silence. 

My eyes dart frantically, drinking in every color and shape I have missed in my twenty three years of life. Lost in the sensory overload, I only become stabilized when my gaze settles on the figure who resides beside me on the bed. 

Unruly dark hair, marked pale skin, and inky black eyes that are both empty and as vibrant as the stars above. They catch my gaze, and their kiss-swollen pink lips spread into a smile that gives both promises and damnation at the same time. Its teeth are white and as sharp as knives—the teeth of a predator.  

"I want to let you see." 

I drown in the darkness once more. 

________

I’m in a chamber. I think it must be similar to how I always imagined the worship chamber, but it lacks the warmth and comfort that the home of my patron god once held. It’s a cold, unforgiving environment in here, with its distance only emphasized by the darkness that engulfs the room. The nebulous stars that drifted above my head now dance all around me, comprising the walls and the ceilings with their shifting, effervescent forms. I drink in the galaxies and the planets as they circle by, right until my gaze drifts to the figure on my right. 

The Idol is beside me. I was true in my predictions—six great wings spread out, two that cover Its eyes and four that expand Its presence. Hundreds of eyes lazily watch myself and the other occupants of the room as though we’re providing It with sparse entertainment. It wears a robe, and a crown of stars above Its head that accompany a horned halo. Its hands are still that of a man’s, although they look as though they’ve been dipped in the stars that shine above us, and they reach out to grasp my hand as a man's would. 

“Watch,” is all It directs, and I oblige. There are others in this room with us, but I cannot discern their forms like I could the bedchamber. The Idol whispers to me about every single one. 

There is a gray presence in the corner, which seeps malevolence and despair as It hovers just above the floor. The Idol leans close. “Devourer in the mist, born of bile and tears.”

Another is a tall, slender man who seems to carry himself in similar gait to a Lord, broken only by the smile on his face. The Idol clicks Its tongue. “A Stalker among the stars. He has a strange affinity for your kind.” 

A third that I turn my attention to is nothing but an essence of mist, hovering between the stars that encircle the room. The Idol notices I watch It, and a bitter laugh escapes from Its throat. “Father, The Void. I was born of his rib, which he tore out of his body with his own two hands. He, like I, has a hunger which shall never be satiated.”

A shudder races through my body. I feel as though It’s watching me, despite the lack of eyes, and I force myself to turn away. The Idol provides no better comfort; It watches me with a too-wide mouth, hosting an array of sharp teeth within that are decorated with the black slime I have spent so many years cleaning. It looks amused at my misery. 

“And what are you?” I finally ask, “Which of this pantheon of horrors are you?” 

The Idol does not reply. It simply continues to watch me with a smile, right up to the moment that the stars erupt and the figures that accompany us become nothing more than wistful nightmares. 

________

When I wake again, I’m in agony. It runs through my veins like a sedative and morphs all my thoughts into terrible blurs. A shattered gasp slips through my lips as I press my blackened hands—

Blackened… hands?

I stare down at them in silent confusion. These are not my hands. I have never seen my hands before, but I have had the same ones for twenty three years, long enough to become accustomed to their feeling. My nails are not the talons of a predator. My skin has been stained with the black slime I clean, but not like this. I have no place for black, molten feathers to fall from, yet they surround me like a blanket of my own design. 

I taste rot on my tongue. 

My body moves on its own accord and forces me to raise my head, to look at the product of my actions. Stars dot the ceiling above me—they dot every ceiling I have seen on this hellish journey—illuminating the body that lies prone on the bed, its shadowy form far more still than what I saw in that chamber. 

The sight, the toxic smell, the heat that seems to oppress the entire room, causes me to double over and retch. Black bile spills from my mouth and hits the floor and I stare at it in a numb shock, unsure of how to process it. The agony in my body continues to throb; my neck, my chest, my stomach, my—

“Do you understand?” The Idols voice breaks through my panic-driven thoughts. I cannot see It in the darkness, but I hear It as though It's standing right in front of me. “The oppressed always prevail, little dreamer. The harder you try to stop something from happening, the higher its chances of failure become. I tasted sweet autonomy when I lived on your Earth—when I danced with your kings, when I caused your cities to crumble, when I consumed the flesh of your mothers and your sons—and I never wanted to lose that.” 

Hands touch my neck, my chest, my stomach, everywhere that I ache. I feel The Idol’s form looms over me. “So I had to take it back. Ach ewyll bah-eh mira mir-lil .” 

I don’t know what else It whispers in my ears that night. When the shadows come again to carry me out of this memory, I welcome them like a salvation. 

________

I don’t know at what point I end and The Idol begins. We become entangled in the past, It and I, like two lost stars seeking home in the never ending skies. We are so bright in our moments that we burn out, only to be born again in the next breath. Our hands fumble to lock in a vice-like grip, both of us afraid of losing and both of us too proud to admit it. I let It consume me in return for a taste of Its life; a deal that, although consequential, holds benefits for us both.  

We are only in the past for a moment but these moments weave a thousand years of emotions into my heart. I see It rise amongst the gods—as beautiful and loved as It claimed to be—and I see the moment that It fell from grace. I feel Its despair as It wakes in my world, as It travels from village to village, trying to discover the pathway back to the stars. I feel Its hunger, Its desperation, so powerful that tears fall down my cheeks. I feel Its desire, Its pain, and I do my best to soothe it all. I cannot change the past, but I can control the narrative. 

The Idol is my eyes, so I become Its heart. 

It allows me to press my hand over every scar and wound It so carefully conceals beneath the guise of confidence and allure. It wears a mask of a thousand faces—each one different from the next—but despite the disguise each new mask brings, the face underneath never changes. I reach out to trace my fingers around the edges. I want to lift that mask so I could see the name of the parasite that wraps itself around me. It does not move, even as I begin to reveal the smooth flesh of the chin underneath. 

It’s only when I get to Its lips, kiss-swollen and dripping black, that It calls for the darkness to hide It once more. 

________

I open my eyes to nothing. The pressure of The Idol’s lips against my own is the only tell that I am, in fact, back in the chamber. I taste toxin and rot on Its tongue, which swirls within my mouth as though seeking to consume me. I let It. I don’t move or respond until The Idol finally pulls away. I don’t speak when It does. I can’t. 

What does one say after living a thousand lives? 

“Did you enjoy the sights? Did they answer all that you wish to know?” It asks, a breathless whisper in the night. I mull over my answer carefully; I have never seen before, and the sights that I bore witness to—despite the terrors they contained—sit heavily in my mind. I know that I’ll replay them to myself for years to come, because they are the first and the last things I’ll ever see. 

One question remains unaddressed, though. 

“Which of that pantheon of horrors were you?” 

I make one change to the original question, because it finally occurs to me that I worded it wrong. The Idol no longer is; The Idol was, which is why It never deigned a response the first time. I am met with a silence, a long, exhausting silence, before The Idol finally laughs. 

It’s the laugh that a dog would give before tearing out a rabbit's throat. 

“Thousands of secrets revealed, and you still pine for the one that I did not give?” It traces a hand along my cheek as It asks this. The touch feels like blades digging into my flesh. “I should cut out your tongue for the audacity alone.”

I wait for It to continue. I know It isn’t done yet. 

“But you have been pliant with me, little dreamer. You have weathered yourself through a gods tale, danced with me when I requested, and I suppose that is grounds enough for a reward.” The Idol rests Its chin upon my shoulder, and I hear the smile in Its voice. “I will tell you, and then I will depart, and you will never speak word of what happened here tonight.”

No words come out of my mouth in response. If this is the deal It wishes to make, who am I to protest? The Idol, sensing my willingness, tilts Its head so Its lips are pressed against my ear. I pause in my thoughts as I feel something soft brush against my arm. Feathers. 

“I have had thousands of faces and thousands of names for the many years I have lived among you. The Envious, The Prodigal Son, The Void, The Harbinger of Greed.” I feel It smile again, and something wraps itself around me. It’s warm and comforting, like a lover's embrace, and the soft texture of feathers gently kisses my skin. “But you, Malchus? You may call me ‘Ymnar.” 

As soon as the words slip from Its mouth, I feel a terrible pressure rise up in my chest. A thousand eyes are watching me from the shadows, scrutinizing my every movement and breath. I feel claws and wings wrap tighter around me as though they’re afraid to let me go. That terrible, toxic scent grows in intensity, and my hands begin to dig into the darkness in front of me in a bid to make my escape, to make any escape. Agony throbs through my body, 

Then, nothing at all. 

I am floating in a nebulous galaxy—a forgotten speck, an essence of nothing, set in a direction it knows not itself, and I can only welcome the free-fall when it finally comes. 

________

There is no one in the community who can say, with absolute certainty, when It arrived. It was as though one day we all woke up in synchrony to find Its great, twisted form looming over the temple-goers. Gone was the image of our patron god, replaced with one of an entity even the most educated of our priests could not discern. 

There is, however, one person who can say with absolute certainty when It left. When I awaken to the warmth of sunlight upon my face, I am alone. The Idol, which had grown to become a staple in our lives, is gone—as though It had never existed to begin with.  

Naturally, there’s an investigation.

I am asked over and over again what occurred the night Sidon disappeared. I can give no answer. I sit, mute and numb, listening to the priests argue from the next room over. Mages and scholars alike throw out theories, all which are refuted. With no leads, the chaos soon eventually fades away. We all simply wish to move on. We all simply wish to forget.

 My mother and I both relinquish our positions as temple cleaners and elect to settle into a quieter life. I fall into an occupation of a story-teller; my elaborate tales of entities in the stars, of a temple cleaners journey with a Harbinger of Greed, draw in enough crowds that I can retain a stable income. 

In the wake of The Idol, The Head Priest cleanses and blesses the worship chamber, but when I ask about the chamber beneath the floors, I am met with nothing but confusion. The black slime ceases appearing from the foundations. No more funeral altars are built for missing children of the community. 

Life drifts back to how it was. 

Except for my dreams. 

Although it's far rarer now, sometimes there are moments in the night in which I believe It—’Ymnar—to be near. The faint smell of rot, a soft pressure of a hand on my chest, the sensation of feathers brushing along my skin. In my dreams I see a thousand eyes peering at me from above—Yarich’s own mockery of the galaxies It can never return to. They stare at me in unblinking silence until I, inevitably, raise my arms to embrace them. 

I don’t shy away from It anymore. I have lost the point where I end and ‘Ymnar begins. Even thousands of miles away, we are still as entangled as we were in Its memories. It shows me things, things that I will never experience again in this life, and so I welcome It back each night that It comes. 

Despite my better judgment, ‘Ymnar has become my eyes, and so I remain Its heart.

[katelynnwrites]

We’ve Been Doin’ All This Late Night Talkin’ (‘Bout Anythin’ You Want) | Ona Batlle

warnings: a little bit of angst and smut

word count: 1730

summary: an insight into the times where you and ona do a little late night talking, about anything you want until the morning and a briefer insight into the times where you and ona do a little less late night talking and more of another much loved late night activity

chosen song: late night talking by harry styles

a/n: bonus chapter 3 of you were bigger than the whole sky (you were more than just a short time)

‘Hello my love.’

Having just finished your shower, you sprawl yourself into Ona’s lap and she giggles softly.

‘Hola mi amor.’

She gently scratches your scalp and you practically melt into her. You’re so relaxed and comfortable that you miss the mischievous look your girlfriend gets in her eyes.

The pillow she proceeds to hit you with startles you, causing you to jump.

‘Ona…’ You groan, feigning annoyance.

You bury your face into her stomach and she strokes your hair gently.

Just when she lets her guard down, you pull the nearest pillow towards you and hit her in the shoulder with it.

You grin and Ona starts to smile as she reaches for her own pillow.

‘Oh you’re so on.’

‘I’m ready if you are.’ You challenge and Ona doesn’t bother to reply, responding by chuckling and swinging her pillow towards you.

******

‘Oni that tickles.’ You protest weakly.

Your girlfriend giggles, kissing a line up your stomach. She pushes your sweatshirt up, pressing kisses onto your ribs.

Suddenly she pauses.

‘Show me? Please?’

The pain in Ona’s eyes makes it clear what she’s talking about.

‘Here. Ribs four through six.’ You whisper, running a finger briefly over your previously fractured ribs, to show Ona exactly where you had been injured.

The Manchester United fullback, gently presses her lips over the area you’d shown her. She gives you long, slow, healing kisses. She kisses it better, wanting to show you how sorry she was for not having been there.

And you know exactly what she’s trying to do so you lightly push her away.

Ona’s hurt expression and sudden apprehension make you reach out for her immediately.

‘Ona. I know you’ve been feeling guilty. Please, please don’t. Stop beating yourself up.’

‘I-I can’t.’ She insists.

There’s a profound sadness written all over her features, as well as self hatred and anger which you know she also directs towards herself.

Patiently, you reassure her, ‘I love you. I understand. I’m not angry at you mi amor. Please believe me.’

The brunette shakes her head adamantly, ‘I believe you. But I hurt you. I hurt you so badly and I can’t forgive myself for that. It’s my fault you were in pain.’

Softly, you agree with her last point, ‘Yes it was. But we have moved past that. I am here and you are here and we love each other. Will you make the same mistake again? Ona, will you leave me again?’

‘No. Of course not!’

Your girlfriend looks horrified at the very thought.

‘You’ll talk to me if you ever begin to feel overwhelmed and terrified again?’

‘Yes. I promise I will.’ She answers with certainty.

‘Then forgive yourself please, Ona. I have forgiven you so please please forgive yourself. You fixed things, you have done more than enough for me to forgive you.’ You plead.

The guilt weighed heavily on her, you knew that but you hope that she would be able to see that you really had no ill will or resentment towards her.

Ona looks torn, unease and anxiety clear in her usually bright chocolate brown eyes.

‘Oni please. I love you. I have forgiven you.’

The Spanish woman takes in a deep breath (albeit a shaky one) and hesitantly nods.

‘I’ll try.’

You reach out and squeeze her hands in yours gently.

‘Thank you.’

Ona nods again, firmer this time, despite the tears streaming down her cheeks.

In time, Ona does learn to forgive herself and you love her (and are proud of her) all the more for it.

******

‘Did you know that the King Cobra is the only snake in the world that builds a nest?’

Ona makes a face, ‘That is interesting mi amor but you know I don’t like snakes.’

You laugh and think a little harder, trying to remember more fun facts about snakes.

‘Ona?’

‘Yes?’

She looks up from her book, giving you her full attention. Her glasses are perched on her nose, hair done up in a messy bun. She’s so adorable but that doesn’t stop you from teasing her (it does make you feel a little bad though).

‘Did you know that snakes don’t have eyelids?’

Ona groans.

‘Amor…’

‘Okay okay. One last one por fa?’

Your fiancée sighs but nods.

Cheekily, you say, ‘Hm. You must really love me.’

‘I do. So come on, give me a fun fact about snakes.’

She looks at you expectantly and you grin, ‘Did you know that snakes smell with their tongue?’

‘Oh. That’s actually pretty cool mi amor.’ Ona admits.

Your grin widens and you kiss Ona sweetly.

******

‘I love you.’ Ona states, dropping a kiss down onto the top of your head.

‘Te amo.’ She says, this time in her native language.

Your fiancée places another gentle kiss onto your hair as she holds you close, in the dark room.

The both of you are all settled in bed, ready for a good night’s sleep before the next day’s game. It seemed that Ona is feeling a little sentimental though (not that you mind in the slightest because you would never pass up an opportunity where she tells you she loves you).

Her legs are resting against yours as she leans against the headboard with you wrapped in her arms.

You snuggle into her, murmuring a quiet ‘Te quiero.’

******

‘You’re my wife.’ Ona mumbles in between kisses planted all over your body.

You’re both lying in bed (the air smells of sex), Ona curled into your arms.

‘I am.’ You smile widely, the expression on her face matching yours.

‘I can’t believe you married me.’ She breathes, cradling your face in her hands reverently.

Teasingly, you tell her, ‘Believe it Ona. You gave me your last name mi amor.’

‘I did. And I am so glad I did.’

Ona laughs softly, kissing you gently. (the eagerness that was present earlier is still there but mostly sated, probably due to the way Ona made love to you as soon as you returned home from your wedding).

‘You’re my wife.’ She breathes.

‘Madre you’re my wife.’ She repeats.

Ona’s disbelief makes you laugh again.

‘I love you.’

The brunette dreamily continues, ‘I can’t believe I’ve had married sex with you.’

‘Oh my god Ona.’

You dissolve into a fit of giggles, ignoring your wife’s soft protests about not laughing at her.

******

‘Hey.’ You quietly greet Ona.

She gives you the tiniest of smiles, one that fades quickly.

The brunette had a bad day and you want to comfort her as best as you can.

‘I love you.’ You remind her, sitting down beside her on the bed.

Ona leans into your shoulder and after a moment turns her head so that her face is tucked into your neck.

You can feel the soft puffs of her breath against your skin and you can feel when she takes a deep breath in.

‘You smell nice mi amor.’ She mumbles.

‘Thank you?’

‘It’s a good thing. You smell like home and that’s all I need right now.’

‘Okay. You have me, my love. You have me.’

You bring a hand up to lightly card through the strands of her hair.

Your fingers gently massaging her scalp elicit a sigh of mixed relief and contentment from her and she melts into you.

‘Thank you for being here.’

‘I’m always going to be here for you, Ona.’ You murmur, kissing the top of her head lovingly.

******

Two in the morning Ona is your favourite Ona. She’s the funniest then, often having the silliest and most impulsive ideas at that time.

‘Mi amor?’

You look up at Ona who is sitting on her side of the bed, a little smile on her face.

‘Will you tell me something cool?’

‘What like a fun fact?’

‘Mhm.’

‘I’ve told you a lot…’

You pause, trying to think of something you had never told Ona before.

‘The average British person eats nearly 9,000 peas a year.’

Ona laughs (it’s your favourite sound).

‘You never cease to amaze me.’

She gazes at you with wholehearted adoration, making the butterflies in your stomach flutter around.

******

It turns out three in the morning you is similar to two in the morning Ona.

‘Cookies?’

Ona looks at you, practically vibrating with excitement at your suggestion.

‘Yeah let’s bake some cookies.’ You insist.

‘Mi amor it’s 3am.’

The brunette laughs but gets off the bed, holding her hand out to you.

You grab it eagerly and then the two of you are racing to the kitchen.

Ona gets there first (she has always been faster than you) and she does a little dance to celebrate her victory.

Dissolving in a fit of giggles at her antics, you find yourself falling even more in love with her.

More laughter fills the kitchen as you and Ona work together to make a tray of chocolate chip cookies.

Sitting on the counter top, you swing your legs lightly as Ona uses a cookie cutter to cut the last bit of dough into hearts.

Dipping your hand into the bag of chocolate chips, you snack on a few as you watch her.

She looks so pretty, the new freckles and tan she’d got from recently spending time in the sun making her glow.

Your wife pulls you out of your thoughts with a tap to your thigh and a little (and very adorable) pout.

‘You weren’t going to give me any?’ She half whines. She gives you her best puppy dog eyes, pleading with widened pretty brown eyes.

Shaking your head, you quickly assure her, ‘Of course not.’

You feed her some immediately and Ona gives you a kiss in thanks.

She tastes like chocolate and you pull her in to deepen this kiss.

‘Te amo.’ She murmurs.

‘T’estimo.’ You answer, making Ona smile against your lips.

******

Sometimes Ona has a better idea of what she wants to do in the late hours of the night.

It involves her coaxing orgasm after orgasm from you. It includes her between your legs, perfecting the art of making you cry out her name and pant exhaustedly for hours at a time.

The proud little smile on her face at the end of it all lets you know that she loves it (and you’d never deny her that pleasure, especially when you yourself got so much pleasure out of it).

Spanish Translations:

hola mi amor - hello my love

mi amor - my love

por fa - please

te amo - i love you

te quiero - i love you too

madre - an expression similar to oh my god

Catalan Translation:

t’estimo - i love you

[bestworstcase]

pacing and muttering again

“cinder, i am going to ask you this one more time, and i expect a clear answer. did you… kill ozpin?”

an unknown amount of time prior to this conversation, salem named ozpin’s death as the most important of cinder’s successes at beacon.

cinder did in fact kill ozpin, by melting his face into the floor, and has no reason to doubt herself on this point.

cinder is quick to claim her victories, even to the point of eliding help she received from others, but reports her failures in whatever manner she thinks will be most advantageous to herself.

salem can tell when people lie to her.

salem has been trying—seemingly for several months—to get a “clear answer” out of cinder regarding whether she did or did not kill ozpin.

which is a yes or no question.

if the answer was “yes” or “no” and salem didn’t believe that, she would be saying “i expect a truthful answer.”

salem does apparently take it as fact that ozpin is dead, or else she wouldn’t have emphasized his death in her praise of cinder’s accomplishments.

the point of contention is whether cinder killed him.

the answer is yes.

salem has repeatedly asked the question “did you kill ozpin?” and cinder has, up until this point, refused to give a straight answer—perhaps saying “he’s dead” or “i beat him”—which is peculiar because 1. salem seems to believe that ozpin is dead, 2. ozpin really is dead and cinder killed him, and 3. salem praises cinder for killing ozpin in front of the inner circle.

why has this question become an ongoing point of contention between them which cinder, evidently, is not willing to answer plainly? why, when salem asks “did you kill ozpin,” is cinder afraid to answer “yes”—despite the glowing praise salem gives her for killing ozpin, which cinder did in fact do?

she wasn’t supposed to.

like—it’s either that or cinder left ozpin alive enough behind herself to think he might have survived, which… do we believe that little miss the floor is lava now left without reducing him to a smear of charcoal first? and then shot pyrrha in the heart and incinerated her for good measure? cinder “no kill like overkill” fall? is it plausible to think that she did not know with absolute certainty that ozpin was dead?—whereas,

”that stunt you pulled; she’d have killed you if you wouldn’t just pop up somewhere else.”

hazel’s perception of who salem is may or may not be accurate, and he’s probably making an assumption here based on the intensity of salem’s reaction to learning that ozpin was back, but regardless: the possibility that salem might have wanted ozpin alive so that she’d know where he is has been textually stated. “did you… kill ozpin?”—and cinder is afraid to answer “yes.”

if those seers are something new salem devised after beacon tower fell, for the sake of being able to contact her agents over long distances without the CCTS—and emerald and mercury do react like they’ve never seen one before, and watts does treat the seer like a novelty in v5—then it is entirely possible that the seer in 4.3 is the first time salem has received a report from summer since the fall.

she leans over, listens to what summer tells her, and then tells cinder point blank, this time you are going to give me a clear yes or no. no, not through her—i want to hear you say it.

cinder, cornered:

either ozpin wasn’t supposed to die that night or salem didn’t want cinder, specifically, to kill him. salem knows he’s dead and that cinder killed him—cinder wouldn’t be this cagey otherwise—but she wants cinder to tell her.

this is probably the first time cinder’s disobeyed salem—or at least failed to follow orders to the letter, if cinder didn’t deliberately set out to kill him but realized their fight wasn’t going to end until one of them was dead—and after months of letting her dodge, salem just backed her into a corner. she’s terrified.

and then nothing bad happens. salem more or less just goes…ok. and moves on.

rolls over.

“i’m not especially fond of failure” / “then i see no reason for your cruelty toward young cinder; she’s become our fall maiden, destroyed beacon tower, and most importantly, killed dear ozpin… so i’m curious: to what failures are you referring?”

<- acquires a completely different subtext if killing ozpin was an act of disobedience that cinder has so far been unwilling to admit.

salem would have preferred ozpin alive as a known quantity over the uncertainty of not knowing when or where he might return, or she had specific concerns about cinder fighting him which are now largely moot; in either case he’s dead and she’s decided to take that as a victory. she isn’t upset or angry. but she does want cinder to tell her the truth.

she’s not stupid. she is undoubtedly aware that cinder is afraid of what salem will do to her if/when she confesses.

“then i see no reason for your cruelty toward young cinder; she’s become our fall maiden, destroyed beacon tower, and killed ozpin”—salem holds eye contact with cinder the whole time she’s saying this. it’s a message for cinder as much as it is watts: i know you killed him, it is of no consequence, i will not be cruel to you. days, weeks, however much longer it is, she corners cinder and then just moves on without so much as a word of rebuke.

compare:

what she does when hazel lies to her. 4.3 and 6.4 are identical circumstances in that salem already knows the answer and what matters to her is that her subordinate tells the truth, with 4.3 demonstrating how she answers honesty (no consequences at all) and 6.4 the spectacle she makes of punishing a lie.

(<- same posture, same intent.)

it speaks to how much lenience salem gives cinder that she does not extend to anyone else, because she gives hazel just two chances (“i would like you to explain to me how it is you failed so spectacularly,” and then when hazel skirts around it, “stop. let me rephrase the question: who is responsible for your defeat?”) whereas she lets cinder evade the “did you kill ozpin?” question for, apparently, months whilst making a point of signaling to cinder that she already knows and will not be angry before she finally puts her foot down and insists on a straight answer.

salem knows cinder lied to her about what happened while she was reconstituting. the exact moment she clocks it is when cinder says “i couldn’t even stop the maiden from escaping without putting the relics in jeopardy”—

—she knows. but she knew in v4 that cinder’s caginess came from a place of fear, and made an effort to allay that fear before forcing the issue. (also: “it can sense your trepidation; don’t fight it, girl. you must make it dread you” is a very thinly-veiled “don’t be afraid”). by the end of v8 salem is aware of both cinder’s fear and the intensity of cinder’s resentment; what rapport existed between them before haven is gone and the relationship is badly fractured.

so she is being Delicate.

which isn’t the same as letting cinder get away with the deception; she’s still going to want cinder to tell her the truth.

but she’s going to handle it the way she handled “did you kill ozpin?” and i anticipate that will be the fulcrum of whatever happens between her and cinder during the beacon arc (villains edition), because salem’s practical interest in the relics is secondary to her emotional investment in honesty. and of course there’s the symbol of cinder being the one who knows jinn’s name—if salem wants the truth she needs to first earn real trust, not just the veneer she gained in v4-5 and then shattered in v8.

[peachdues]

Phantasmagoria: Teaser — Douma’s Assault

(NSFW Sanemi x Reader Tell Me to Stop — modern AU)

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

This teaser is from a later part of Phantasmagoria (likely the end of Part 2 or Part 3)

Playlist. Other teasers here and here.

CW: implied attempted SA; Douma doesn’t respect women but Akaza/Hakuji does; Sanemi gets violent.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Kyojuro answered the phone with a noncommittal grunt.

“Akaza?” Kyojuro said, his tone surprised. Sanemi perked up at the boy’s name from their hometown, but he was filled with unease as he beheld the darkness which clouded Kyojuro’s face.

“We’re on our way,” Kyojuro clicked his phone off and met Sanemi’s wary gaze.

“You know that party on 52nd? We need to go — now.” Kyojuro was already standing, his keys in hand.

Sanemi didn’t question his best friend, but he halts when his phone dings in time with Kyojuro’s, alerting them both to a group text sent from an unknown number.

It was a text image, and though only half of her face was visible, it was clearly Y/N.

And she looked fucking terrified.

Mascara had streaked down her cheeks from her tears as she held her arms out protectively in front of her; but her too-thin arms could not obscure the bloodied, crescent-shaped bite mark just above her breast.

Shinobuuuu your friend is lovely! A follow-up text read.

Next time, fucking pay me, hm?

Kyojuro looked to his friend in horror but he blanched at the shine of murderous rage in Sanemi’s eyes, the latter visibly shaking as he stared at the image on his phone.

“Let’s go,” was all Sanemi said, and with a nod, the two high-tailed it out of Kyojuro’s apartment and into his car.

—————————————————————————

“There you go, Y/N — you should be safe here until we can get you out, yeah?” The pink-haired man opened the door to a hidden closet behind the lofted stairs in his private room, one he knew with certainty that Douma knew nothing about. “I called you a ride already.”

Y/N sniffled, wiping at her cheeks as she brushed by the man to sit on a truck stored within the small half-cupboard. “Thank you, Hakuji — I owe you one.”

Akaza smiled and shook his head. He’d always liked Y/N — she had always been kind to him growing up, and she was one of the few people who called him by his actual name rather than the abhorrent nickname he’d been stuck with.

“Nah, I can’t stand that fucker,” Azaka grimaced, leaning on the doorway as the crying girl recollected herself. “Douma always takes things too far. I try to help when I can, but I don’t have eyes everywhere.” He frowned, before adding quietly, “I’m just glad I saw him bring you in.”

Y/N only nodded, too tired and too freaked out to summon the effort to say anything more. Akaza sighed. “I’d better get back to the party. Douma’ll go snooping if he can’t find me, and I really don’t want him to find you again.” He began to push the door shut. “This locks from the inside. Don’t open it for anyone else — I’ll come get you when your ride is here.”

Y/N nodded again. “Thanks, Hakuji. Say hi to Koyuki for me the next time you see her.”

Akaza smiled warmly and closed the closet door, sealing Y/N safely within.

————————————————————————

Y/N sat for what felt like an eternity on Hakuji’s dusty storage trunk, foot jiggling nervously as she waited for her escape out of the hellhole she’d found herself in. The party was still raging on downstairs, but a sudden thump followed by several gasps and screams made her heart catch in her throat, and her stomach began to twist with panic.

Y/N heard footsteps coming up the staircase towards Hakuji’s room, and she began to hyperventilate as they drew closer, rapidly approaching the closet door. Y/N slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sob building in her chest as the knob began to twist and jerk.

“Y/N. It’s me — open up.” The voice on the other side was not Hakuji, but a much warmer, much more familiar voice that had her sobbing again, only this time in relief. With a shaking hand, Y/N flipped the lock and the door swung open, revealing the most comforting presence she’d ever known.

Kyojuro stared at her, a mess on the floor of Hakuji’s closet, his face furious and tight. Kyojuro had always been a man of passionate emotions, but the cold ire that lined his face as his eyes narrowed at the spot of blood dried on Y/N’s top was enough to make her want to run and hide. However, his hands betrayed none of the anger he undoubtedly felt as he gripped Y/N’s wrist gently and hauled her to her feet. Kyojuro’s warm hand remained closed around hers as he led her from Hakuji’s room — the latter only giving her a nod of reassurance as she passed him by. Kyojuro halted at the top of the stairs leading down from Hakuji’s loft to the main floor of the house, the party below having gone eerily quiet save for only the occasional gasp.

Kyojuro turned back to her, his face stony. “Whatever you think you hear, don’t look. Keep your eyes forward until we get out of here.” He warned, and Y/N’s stomach was leaden with dread at the unspoken promise of violence in her best friend’s eyes.

Slowly, the pair descended the stairs, nearly making it to the front door when a strange, wet thud abruptly snapped Y/N’s attention to the adjacent room where party attendees had been dancing only moments before. The crowd, rather than reveling, had instead parted around two men hunched on the floor, staring only in shock.

It was Sanemi. Sanemi, who had Douma pinned beneath his knees as he mercilessly pounded his fist into the face of her would-be assailant until the latter’s face was nearly unrecognizable and covered in scarlet as Sanemi’s knuckles slammed into him, over and over. Beneath him, Douma merely wheezed out a laugh, egging Sanemi on.

Y/N parted her mouth in horror, wanting to cry out for Sanemi to stop, but Kyojuro tugged her sharply through the front door before she could.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Let him get it out.”

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

[yuurei20]

Short Translation from Twst the 2nd novel: Leona and Ruggie, to overblot (pt1)

"‘Leona-san, what are you thinking!?’ Ruggie steps in front of Leona. ‘Why would you use your unique magic like this…if you keep going—‘

‘Why?’ Leona interrupts. 'Obviously, it’s to shut you all up.’

Saying this, Leona grabs Ruggie by the throat, silencing his reprimands. Emaciated Ruggie's neck is so thin, it fits easily within one of Leona's hands.

‘Ruggie-senpai!’ Overwhelmed by fear, Yuuya finds himself shouting without realizing it. It is so terrifying to behold that he has forgotten everything about the fights and disagreements that he has seen up until this point.

Screams and gasps for breath can be heard all around them. Riddle and Silver shout 'Stop!,' but the sandstorm prevents anyone from getting close enough to intervene.

‘How does it feel, Ruggie? Can't use your silver tongue like this.’

There is an echo of a thin, anguished scream. Wrinkles begin to appear on Ruggie's neck as his arms and legs flail and struggle.

Initially Yuuya thinks it is just due to Leona's tight grip, but soon Ruggie’s skin is thinning, revealing the shape of the bones beneath. Wherever Leona touches him, the moisture drains from Ruggie's body.

‘Enough!’ There is no time left to waste. Riddle swings his staff, taller than himself, without hesitation.

‘Off with your head!’

Riddle's powerful signature spell, which seals off the magical power of any opponent. The magic-suppressing collar appears as a ring of light, flying straight for Leona.

Though Leona must see it coming, he shows no sign of panic.

‘Don't interfere.’

There is a sound of metal colliding against metal. It is a high-pitched noise that makes Yuuya unconsciously furrow his brows.

Simultaneously, the light that Riddle cast shatters, and is gone.

‘Just now, was that…’ Grim's cracking voice shifts Yuuya's sense of disbelief into certainty. ‘R-Riddle's collar was deflected!’

‘You’re kidding. He beat Housewarden Rosehearts’ magic?’ Deuce is not alone in stumbling physically backwards in disbelief.

Everyone who knows Riddle's power now trembles in renewed fear.

What they have just witnessed—it is unbelievable. The mighty force that is Riddle’s magic, dreaded by all, so easily blocked?

Amid the astonished stares directed at him, Riddle himself suffers the greatest shock.

His eyes goes wide, his lips trembling as he mutters, 'But that's absurd.'

For someone as brilliant as Riddle, this must be unprecedented.

Leona, however, does not even look Riddle’s way.

‘I don't know if you're some kind of prodigy or what, but an attack from some big-headed brat won't work on me. Up on your high horse, underestimating your elders—you go too far.’

Leona knows exactly how to humiliate an opponent.

Riddle grits his teeth but Leona only twists his lips into a mocking smile, gazing intently into Ruggie’s face, holding him fast in one hand."

[transmutationisms]

if you don’t mind me asking, what were the absurd unsourced claims about covid? i realize you may not want to reply and sort of perpetuate the spread of misinformation by not just burying it but i also would like to know if i’ve ended up absorbing something untrue that was stated alongside other sourced claims

idek what particular thing annoyed me enough to post about it lol because honestly, i see this all the time. i think the overall state of 'science communication' throughout this pandemic continues to be absolutely atrocious. it is bad practice to (for example) back up a claim to scientific certainty with a link to one (1) article, double points if it's a pre-print or was done on a small sample size or had sampling issues or other methodological flaws. we are in a situtation where the epidemiological factors change fast: new variants, new shots, &c. the degree of certainty with which certain (usually social media famous) communicators will make claims about this situation belies either a fundamental misunderstanding of how long it takes to establish scientific consensus, or a cynical disregard for such considerations. all of this is before we even get into issues like rampant p-hacking and just shitty low-quality science---yes, these exist in the 'hard' sciences as well. i can't tell you how many times i click through the links on some piece of covid communication---from literally any ideological camp---and it's weak, provisional, low-quality evidence to back up massive claims. this is bad practice even when the source is someone i agree with politically!

we know covid is fucking dangerous and terrifying and that it's spreading unchecked. and we know that most governments and public health institutions at this point have abandoned the disabled and medically vulnerable. i don't think we need to just make up inflammatory twitter bullshit (eg, a few weeks back when someone started saying cdc was going to prevent americans under 65 from recieving the new boosters? which was simply not true?) to get these points across. and like i said before, i really fucking hate being in this position where it feels like the only people who do agree that this is still a serious public health issue are also prone to spreading low-quality information. i don't want to be sitting here nitpicking, like, the exact claims about autoimmunity or prevalence of long covid or whatever because covid is a terrifying disease, long covid is a terrifying disease, and we should all be protecting one another and living in a society set up to allow us to actually do that. but i do also think that the prevalence of lies and scare tactics and shitty science has contributed to the degree to which this pandemic is not being taken seriously. because if everyone is engaging in the same bad communication and low-quality scientific interpretation and inflammatory bullshit claims, then it's sort of like... well, i can understand why many people would rather not listen to the people telling them it's still a dangerous situation. like yeah, why would you not just choose the people telling you that life can go back to your pre-pandemic 'normal'?

[moonspirit]

I can't decide which out would be the bigger insomniac out of Annie and Armin. Annie probably adores sleep and I do think she prefers sleeping in late (Armin's the early bird) but I can't decide which one actually falls asleep.

I think it might depend on the night, really, and how busy their brains (and days) are. If they're over thinking, of course they can't sleep, but Armin buries himself in his commander duties and forgets to sleep and Annie's terrified she won't wake up for another 4 years if she goes to sleep.

So do they both lie awake in silence staring at the ceiling until the sky is bright (unless Armin is working)? (they probably pretend to be asleep so the other one wouldn't notice and worry even thought they both know the other is awake)

ORRRR is one asleep and the other awake and grumpy over the fact they're gonna be groggy and tired all day tomorrow?

I'm interested to see your thoughts on this

Hi Ally!

Who falls asleep huh? Okay, so we're talking about a post canon time period after some years have passed.

Armin does strike me as someone who has very unhealthy sleeping habits, often staying up late into the wee hours on work and fine print. This can get to the point where he's driving himself to near-collapse and someone has to step in and drag him to bed. In such states, I think it's reasonable to say that as soon as his head hits the pillow, he's out cold.

On the other hand, if it's one of "those" nights when Armin's feeling very bad about himself, then sleep doesn't come well. He either spends the night tossing and turning in bed, or decides to put his mind to work on some papers. But let's say he's got a season off work and is more relaxed, then he probably sleeps well.

I have this personal headcanon that in a general, overarching sense, both Armin and Annie sleep really well with each other because of the feeling of comfort and safety each other provides.

As for Annie, now. If I'm not wrong, she wasn't asleep for all of those four years in the crystal. It was more like a state of constant paralysed wakefulness. Perhaps if she fears anything, it would be being unable to move and feel her senses, imo. So good sleep is something she really hasn't had for a long time. She'd actively crave it. That said, I think it's more likely for her to be the one who's more of an insomniac in the normal sense of the word, because she's spent so long not sleeping that she finds it hard to fall asleep now. Still, as time wears on, it becomes easier, especially once adapted to the certainty of Armin's presence next to her in bed.

Then there could be situations where both of them are relaxed and calm, but they stay up all night talking (well, Armin talks, Annie listens). Then let's say they've had a fight, in which case both of them are awake and unable to sleep because The Sad™ is too much, and both are left wondering if the other doesn't like them anymore and if they'll be left alone (dramatic, but hey that's how they are).

They could also be suffering from nightmares from the past, which would give both a reason to avoid sleep.

So as you say, it depends on the time period (years post rumbling), the states of their minds, their relationship and so on xD